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UNIFORM   WITH   THIS   VOLUME. 


I. 
FAVORITE    AUTHORS: 

A    COMPANION-BOOK    OF  PROSE   AND   POETRY. 
Illustrated  with  numerous  steel  engravings. 


II. 

HOUSEHOLD    FRIENDS    FOR   EVERY 
SEASON. 

Elustrated  with  numerous  steel  engravings. 


TICKNOR  AND   FIELDS,  Publishers. 


FOR  EVERY  DAY  IN  THE  YEAR. 


"  Good  company 


well  approved  in  all." 

SHAKESPEARE. 


BOSTON: 

TICKNOR    AND     FIELDS. 
1866. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1865,  by 

TICKNOR     AND     FIELDS, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS  :  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co., 
CAMBRIDGE. 


CONTENTS. 

Page 
JOHN  G.  WHITTIER  :  Yankee  Gypsies         ...  1 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL:  Dara 16 

THOMAS  CARLYLE  :   Cromwell 19 

T.  WESTWOOD  :  Little  Bell 86 

ROSE  TERRY:  The  Mormon's  Wife  ....  89 
JOHN  GIBSON  LOCKHART  :  Beyond  .  .  .  .109 
JOHN  MILTON:  Autobiographical  Passages.  .  .  110 
WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM:  Wakening  .  .  .  .117 
EDMUND  LODGE  :  John  Graham  .  .  .  .  118 

W.   EDMONDSTOUNE    AYTOUN:    The   Burial-March   of 

Dundee 128 

GOETHE:  Mignon  as  an  Angel    .        .        .        .  134 

MRS.  GASKELL:  The  Cage  at  Cranford.        .        .  .136 

EDMUND  SPENSER  :  Verses  on  Sir  Philip  Sidney       .  150 

GEORGE  TICKNOR  :  Prescott's  Infirmity  of  Sight    .  .152 

DANTE  :  Beatrice 168 


1711073 


iv  CONTENTS. 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY:  A  Love  Story         .        .        .  .170 

BAYARD  TAYLOR:  The  Mystic  Summer     .        .        .  236 

MRS.  JAMESON  :  Two  of  the  Old  Masters      .        .  .     239 

FREDERICK  TENNYSON:  The  Poet's  Heart         .        .  261 

GIORGIO  VASARI  :   Character  of  Fra  Angelico        .  .     265 

WILLIAM  BLAKE  :   Songs 267 

J.  HAIN  FRISWELL:   Upon  Growing  Old       .        .  .277 

R.  W.  EMERSON:  The  Titmouse          ....  284 

NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE  :  Little  Pansie       .        .  .    288 

H.  "W.  LONGFELLOW  :  Palingenesis     ....  805 
SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  :  My  Childhood     ....    808 


YANKEE   GYPSIES 


BY  JOHN  G.  WHITTIEE. 

"  Here  'a  to  budgets,  packs,  and  wallets ; 
Here 's  to  all  the  wandering  train."  —  BURNS. 

I  CONFESS  it,  I  am  keenly  sensitive  to  "  skyey  influ- 
ences." I  profess  no  indifference  to  the  movements  of 
that  capricious  old  gentleman  known  as  the  clerk  of  the 
weather.  I  cannot  conceal  my  interest  in  the  behavior  of 
that  patriarchal  bird  whose  wooden  similitude  gyrates  on 
the  church  spire.  Winter  proper  is  well  enough.  Let  the 
thermometer  go  to  zero  if  it  will ;  so  much  the  better,  if 
thereby  the  very  winds  are  frozen  and  unable  to  flap  their 
stiff  wings.  Sounds  of  bells  in  the  keen  air,  clear,  musical, 
heart-inspiring ;  quick  tripping  of  fair  moccasoned  feet  on 
glittering  ice-pavements ;  bright  eyes  glancing  above  the 
uplifted  muff  like  a  sultana's  behind  the  folds  of  her  yash- 
mack ;  school-boys  coasting  down  street  like  mad  Green- 
landers  ;  the  cold  brilliance  of  oblique  sunbeams  flashing 
back  from  wide  surfaces  of  glittering  snow  or  blazing  upon 
ice-jewelry  of  tree  and  roof.  There  is  nothing  in  all  this  to 
complain  of.  A  storm  of  summer  has  its  redeeming  sublim- 
ities, —  its  slow,  upheaving  mountains  of  cloud  glooming  in 
the  western  horizon  like  new-created  volcanoes,  veined  with 
fire,  shattered  by  exploding  thunders.  Even  the  wild  gales 
of  the  equinox  have  their  varieties,  —  sounds  of  wind-shaken 
woods,  and  waters,  creak  and  clatter  of  sign  and  casement, 
1  A 


2  JOHN    G.  WHITTIER. 

hurricane  puffs  and  down-rushing  rain-spouts.  But  this 
dull,  dark  autumn  day  of  thaw  and  rain,  when  the  very 
clouds  seem  too  spiritless  and  languid  to  storm  outright  or 
take  themselves  out  of  the  way  of  fair  weather ;  wet  beneath 
and  above,  reminding  one  of  that  rayless  atmosphere  of 
Dante's  Third  Circle,  where  the  infernal  Priessnitz  admin- 
isters his  hydropathic  torment,  — 

"  A  heavy,  cursed,  and  relentless  drench,  — 
The  land  it  soaks  is  putrid  " ;  — 

or  rather,  as  everything,  animate  and  inanimate,  is  seething 
in  warm  mist,  suggesting  the  idea  that  Nature,  grown  old 
and  rheumatic,  is  trying  the  efficacy  of  a  Thompsonian 
steam-box  on  a  grand  scale ;  no  sounds  save  the  heavy  plash 
of  muddy  feet  on  the  pavements  ;  the  monotonous,  melan- 
choly drip  from  trees  and  roofs ;  the  distressful  gurgling  of 
water-ducts,  swallowing  the  dirty  amalgam  of  the  gutters  ;  a 
dim,  leaden-colored  horizon  of  only  a  few  yards  in  diameter, 
shutting  down  about  one,  beyond  which  nothing  is  visible 
save  in  faint  line  or  dark  projection ;  the  ghost  of  a  church 
spire  or  the  eidolon  of  a  chimney-pot.  He  who  can  extract 
pleasurable  emotions  from  the  alembic  of  such  a  day  has  a 
trick  of  alchemy  with  which  I  am  wholly  unacquainted. 

Hark !  a  rap  at  my  door.  Welcome  anybody  just  now. 
One  gains  nothing  by  attempting  to  shut  out  the  sprites  of 
the  weather.  They  come  in  at  the  keyhole  ;  they  peer 
through  the  dripping  panes ;  they  insinuate  themselves 
through  the  crevices  of  the  casement,  or  plump  down  chim- 
ney astride  of  the  rain-drops. 

I  rise  and  throw  open  the  door.  A  tall,  shambling,  loose- 
jointed  figure ;  a  pinched,  shrewd  face,  sunbrown  and  wind- 
dried  ;  small,  quick-winking  black  eyes.  There  he  stands, 
the  water  dripping  from  his  pulpy  hat  and  ragged  elbows. 

I  speak  to  him ;  but  he  returns  no  answer.  With  a 
dumb  show  of  misery  quite  touching  he  hands  me  a  soiled 


YANKEE  GYPSIES.  8 

piece  of  parchment,  whereon  I  read  what  purports  to  be  a 
melancholy  account  of  shipwreck  and  disaster,  to  the  par- 
ticular detriment,  loss,  and  damnification  of  one  Pietro 
Frugoni,  who  is,  in  consequence,  sorely  in  want  of  the  alms 
of  all  charitable  Christian  persons,  and  who  is,  in  short,  the 
bearer  of  this  veracious  document,  duly  certified  and  in- 
dorsed by  an  Italian  consul  in  one  of  our  Atlantic  cities,  of  a 
high-sounding,  but  to  Yankee  organs  unpronounceable,  name. 

Here  commences  a  struggle.  Every  man,  the  Mahome- 
tans tell  us,  has  two  attendant  angels,  —  the  good  one  on  his 
right  shoulder,  the  bad  on  his  left.  "  Give,"  says  Benevo- 
lence, as  with  some  difficulty  I  fish  up  a  small  coin  from  the 
depths  of  my  pocket.  "  Not  a  cent,"  says  selfish  Prudence  ; 
and  I  drop  it  from  my  fingers.  "  Think,"  says  the  good  an- 
gel, "  of  the  poor  stranger  in  a  strange  land,  just  escaped 
from  the  terrors  of  the  sea  storm,  in  which  his  little  prop- 
erty has  perished,  thrown  half  naked  and  helpless  on  our 
shores,  ignorant  of  our  language,  and  unable  to  find  employ- 
ment suited  to  his  capacity."  "  A  vile  impostor !  "  replies 
the  left-hand  sentinel.  "  His  paper,  purchased  from  one  of 
those  ready  writers  in  New  York  who  manufacture  beggar 
credentials  at  the  low  price  of  one  dollar  per  copy,  with 
earthquakes,  fires,  or  shipwrecks,  to  suit  customers." 

Amidst  this  confusion  of  tongues  I  take  another  survey 
of  my  visitant.  Ha !  a  light  dawns  upon  me.  That 
shrewd,  old  face,  with  its  sharp,  winking  eyes,  is  no  stran- 
ger to  me.  Pietro  Frugoni,  I  have  seen  thee  before.  Si, 
signor,  that  face  of  thine  has  looked  at  me  over  a  dirty  white 
neckcloth,  with  the  corners  of  that  cunning  mouth  drawn 
downwards,  and  those  small  eyes  turned  up  in  sanctimonious 
gravity,  while  thou  wast  offering  to  a  crowd  of  half-grown 
boys  an  extemporaneous  exhortation  in  the  capacity  of  a 
travelling  preacher.  Have  I  not  seen  it  peering  out  from 
under  a  blanket,  as  that  of  a  poor  Penobscot  Indian  who  had 
lost  the  use  of  his  hands  while  trapping  on  the  Madawaska? 


4  JOHN    G.  WHITTIER. 

Is  it  not  the  face  of  the  forlorn  father  of  six  small  children, 
whom  the  "  marcury  doctors  "  had  "  pisened  "  and  crippled  ? 
Did  it  not  belong  to  that  down-east  unfortunate  who  had 
been  out  to  the  "  Genesee  country "  and  got  the  "  fevern- 
nager,"  and  whose  hand  shook  so  pitifully  when  held  out  to 
receive  my  poor  gift?  The  same,  under  all  disguises  — 
Stephen  Leathers,  of  Barrington  —  him,  and  none  other ! 
Let  me  conjure  him  into  his  own  likeness :  — 

"  Well,  Stephen,  what  news  from  old  Barrington  ?  " 

"  0,  well  I  thought  I  knew  ye,"  he  answers,  not  the  least 
disconcerted.  "  How  do  you  do  ?  and  how 's  your  folks  ? 
All  well,  I  hope.  I  took  this  'ere  paper  you  see,  to  help  a 
poor  furriner,  who  couldn't  make  himself  understood  any 
more  than  a  wild  goose.  I  thought  I  'd  just  start  him  for- 
'ard  a  little.  It  seemed  a  marcy  to  do  it." 

Well  and  shiftily  answered,  thou  ragged  Proteus.  One 
cannot  be  angry  with  such  a  fellow.  I  will  just  inquire  into 
the  present  state  of  his  Gospel  mission  and  about  the  condi- 
tion of  his  tribe  on  the  Penobscot ;  and  it  may  be  not  amiss 
to  congratulate  him  on  the  success  of  the  steam  doctors  in 
sweating  the  "pisen"  of  the  regular  faculty  out  of  him. 
But  he  evidently  has  no  wish  to  enter  into  idle  conversation. 
Intent  upon  his  benevolent  errand,  he  is  already  clattering 
down  stairs.  Involuntarily  I  glance  out  of  the  window  just 
in  season  to  catch  a  single  glimpse  of  him  ere  he  is  swal- 
lowed up  in  the  mist. 

He  has  gone ;  and,  knave  as  he  is,  I  can  hardly  help  ex- 
claiming, "  Luck  go  with  him ! "  He  has  broken  in  upon 
the  sombre  train  of  my  thoughts  and  called  up  before  me 
pleasant  and  grateful  recollections.  The  old  farm-house 
nestling  in  its  valley ;  hills  stretching  off  to  the  south  and 
green  meadows  to  the  east;  the  small  stream  which  came 
noisily  down  its  ravine,  washing  the  old  garden  wall  and 
softly  lapping  on  fallen  stones  and  mossy  roots  of  beeches 
and  hemlocks ;  the  tall  sentinel  poplars  at  the  gateway ;  the 


YANKEE  GYPSIES.  5 

oak  forest,  sweeping  unbroken  to  the  northern  horizon ;  the 
grass-grown  carriage-path,  with  its  rude  and  crazy  bridge,  — 
the  dear  old  landscape  of  my  boyhood  lies  outstretched  be- 
fore me  like  a  daguerrotype  from  that  picture  within  which 
I  have  borne  with  me  in  all  my  wanderings.  I  am  a  boy 
again,  once  more  conscious  of  the  feeling,  half  terror,  half 
exultation,  with  which  I  used  to  announce  the  approach  of 
this  very  vagabond  and  his  "  kindred  after  the  flesh." 

The  advent  of  wandering  beggars,  or,  "  old  stragglers,"  as 
we  were  wont  to  call  them,  was  an  event  of  no  ordinary  in- 
terest in  the  generally  monotonous  quietude  of  our  farm  life. 
Many  of  them  were  well  known ;  they  had  their  periodical 
revolutions  and  transits  j  we  could  calculate  them  like  eclipses 
or  new  moons.  Some  were  sturdy  knaves,  fat  and  saucy ; 
and,  whenever  they  ascertained  that  the  "  men  folks  "  were 
absent,  would  order  provisions  and  cider  like  men  who 
expected  to  pay  for  it,  seating  themselves  at  the  hearth  or 
table  with  the  air  of  Falstaff,  —  "  Shall  I  not  take  mine  ease 
in  mine  own  inn  ?  "  Others,  poor,  pale,  patient,  like  Sterne's 
monk,  came  creeping  up  to  the  door,  hat  in  hand,  standing 
there  in  their  gray  wretchedness  with  a  look  of  heartbreak 
and  forlornness  which  was  never  without  its  effect  on  our 
juvenile  sensibilities.  At  times,  however,  we  experienced  a 
slight  revulsion  of  feeling  when  even  these  humblest  chil- 
dren of  sorrow  somewhat  petulantly  rejected  our  proffered 
bread  and  cheese,  and  demanded  instead  a  glass  of  cider. 
"Whatever  the  temperance  society  might  in  such  cases  have 
done,  it  was  not  in  our  hearts  to  refuse  the  poor  creatures  a 
draught  of  their  favorite  beverage ;  and  was  n't  it  a  satisfac- 
tion to  see  their  sad,  melancholy  faces  light  up  as  we  handed 
them  the  full  pitcher,  and,  on  receiving  it  back  empty  from 
their  brown,  wrinkled  hands,  to  hear  them,  half  breathless 
from  their  long,  delicious  draught,  thanking  us  for  the  favor, 
as  "  dear,  good  children  " !  Not  unfrequently  these  wander- 
ing tests  of  our  benevolence  made  their  appearance  in  inter- 


6  JOHN    G.  WHITTIER. 

esting  groups  of  man,  woman,  and  child,  picturesque  in  their 
squalidness,  and  manifesting  a  maudlin  affection  which  would 
have  done  honor  to  the  revellers  at  Poosie-Nansie's,  immor- 
tal in  the  cantata  of  Burns.  I  remember  some  who  were 
evidently  the  victims  of  monomania  —  haunted  and  hunted 
by  some  dark  thought  —  possessed  by  a  fixed  idea.  One,  a 
black-eyed,  wild-haired  woman,  with  a  whole  tragedy  of  sin, 
shame,  and  suffering  written  in  her  countenance,  used  often 
to  visit  us,  warm  herself  by  our  winter  fire,  and  supply  her- 
self with  a  stock  of  cakes  and  cold  meat ;  but  was  never 
known  to  answer  a  question  or  to  ask  one.  She  never 
smiled ;  the  cold,  stony  look  of  her  eye  never  changed ;  a  si- 
lent, impassive  face,  frozen  rigid  by  some  great  wrong  or  sin. 
We  used  to  look  with  awe  upon  the  "still  woman,"  and 
think  of  the  demoniac  of  Scripture  who  had  a  "  dumb  spirit." 
One  —  I  think  I  see  him  now,  grim,  gaunt,  and  ghastly, 
working  his  slow  way  up  to  our  door  —  used  to  gather  herbs 
by  the  wayside  and  call  himself  doctor.  He  was  bearded 
like  a  he-goat  and  used  to  counterfeit  lameness,  yet,  when  he 
supposed  himself  alone,  would  travel  on  lustily  as  if  walking 
for  a  wager.  At  length,  as  if  in  punishment  of  his  deceit, 
he  met  with  an  accident  in  his  rambles  and  became  lame  in 
earnest,  hobbling  ever  after  with  difficulty  on  his  gnarled 
crutches.  Another  used  to  go  stooping,  like  Bunyan's  pil- 
grim, under  a  pack  made  of  an  old  bed  sacking,  stuffed  out 
into  most  plethoric  dimensions,  tottering  on  a  pair  of  small, 
meagre  legs,  and  peering  out  with  his  wild,  hairy  face  from 
under  his  burden  like  a  big-bodied  spider.  That  "  man  with 
the  pack"  always  inspired  me  with  awe  and  reverence. 
Huge,  almost  sublime,  in  its  tense  rotundity,  the  father  of 
all  packs,  never  laid  aside  and  never  opened,  what  might 
there  not  be  within  it  ?  "With  what  flesh-creeping  curiosity 
I  used  to  walk  round  about  it  at  a  safe  distance,  half  expect- 
ing to  see  its  striped  covering  stirred  by  the  motions  of  a 
mysterious  life,  or  that  some  evil  monster  would  leap  out  of 


YANKEE    GYPSIES.  7 

it,  like  robbers  from  All  Baba's  jars  or  armed  men  from  the 
Trojan  horse ! 

There  was  another  class  of  peripatetic  philosophers  — 
half  peddler,  half  mendicant  —  who  were  in  the  habit  of 
visiting  us.  One  we  recollect,  a  lame,  unshaven,  sinister- 
eyed,  unwholesome  fellow,  with  his  basket  of  old  news- 
papers and  pamphlets,  and  his  tattered  blue  umbrella,  serv- 
ing rather  as  a  walking-staff  than  as  a  protection  from  the 
rain.  He  told  us  on  one  occasion,  in  answer  to  our  inquir- 
ing into  the  cause  of  his  lameness,  that  when  a  young  man 
he  was  employed  on  the  farm  of  the  chief  magistrate  of  a 
neighboring  State  ;  where,  as  his  ill  luck  would  have  it,  the 
governor's  handsome  daughter  fell  in  love  with  him.  He 
was  caught  one  day  in  the  young  lady's  room  by  her  father ; 
whereupon  the  irascible  old  gentleman  pitched  him  uncere- 
moniously out  of  the  window,  laming  him  for  life,  on  the 
brick  pavement  below,  like  Vulcan  on  the  rocks  of  Lemnos. 
As  for  the  lady,  he  assured  us  "  she  took  on  dreadfully  about 
it."  "  Did  she  die  ? "  we  inquired  anxiously.  There  was  a 
cunning  twinkle  in  the  old  rogue's  eye  as  he  responded, 
"  Well,  no,  she  did  n't.  She  got  married." 

Twice  a  year,  usually  in  the  spring  and  autumn,  we  were 
honored  with  a  call  from  Jonathan  Plummer,  maker  of 
verses,  pedler  and  poet,  physician  and  parson,  —  a  Yankee 
troubadour,  —  first  and  last  minstrel  of  the  valley  of  the 
Merrimac,  encircled,  to  my  wondering  young  eyes,  with  the 
very  nimbus  of  immortality.  He  brought  with  him  pins, 
needles,  tape,  and  cotton  thread  for  my  mother;  jackknives, 
razors,  and  soap  for  my  father ;  and  verses  of  his  own  com- 
posing, coarsely  printed  and  illustrated  with  rude  woodcuts, 
for  the  delectation  of  the  younger  branches  of  the  family. 
No  lovesick  youth  could  drown  himself,  no  deserted  maiden 
bewail  the  moon,  no  rogue  mount  the  gallows  without  fitting 
memorial  in  Plummer's  verses.  Earthquakes,  fires,  fevers, 
and  shipwrecks  he  regarded  as  personal  favors  from  Provi- 


8  JOHN    G.  WfflTTIER. 

dence,  furnishing  the  raw  material  of  song  and  ballad. 
Welcome  to  us  in  our  country  seclusion  as  Autolycus  to  the 
clown  in  Winter's  Tale,  we  listened  with  infinite  satisfaction 
to  his  readings  of  his  own  verses,  or  to  his  ready  improvisa- 
tion upon  some  domestic  incident  or  topic  suggested  by  his 
auditors.  When  once  fairly  over  the  difficulties  at  the  out- 
set of  a  new  subject  his  rhymes  flowed  freely,  "  as  if  he  had 
eaten  ballads  and  all  men's  ears  grew  to  his  tunes."  His 
productions  answered,  as  nearly  as  I  can  remember,  to 
Shakespeare's  description  of  a  proper  ballad  — "  doleful 
matter  merrily  set  down,  or  a  very  pleasant  theme  sung 
lamentably."  He  was  scrupulously  conscientious,  devout, 
inclined  to  theological  disquisitions,  and  withal  mighty  in 
Scripture.  He  was  thoroughly  independent ;  flattered  no- 
body, cared  for  nobody,  trusted  nobody.  When  invited  to 
sit  down  at  our  dinner-table,  he  invariably  took  the  precau- 
tion to  place  his  basket  of  valuables  between  his  legs  for 
safe  keeping.  "Never  mind  thy  basket,  Jonathan,"  said 
my  father ;  "  we  sha'  n't  steal  thy  verses."  "  I  'm  not  sure 
of  that,"  returned  the  suspicious  guest.  "It  is  written, 
'  Trust  ye  not  in  any  brother.'  " 

Thou  too,  O  Parson  B.,  —  with  thy  pale  student's  brow 
and  rubicund  nose,  with  thy  rusty  and  tattered  black  coat 
overswept  by  white,  flowing  locks,  with  thy  professional 
white  neckcloth  scrupulously  preserved  when  even  a  shirt 
to  thy  back  was  problematical,  —  art  by  no  means  to  be 
overlooked  in  the  muster-roll  of  vagrant  gentlemen  possess- 
ing the  entree  of  our  farm-house.  Well  do  we  remember 
with  what  grave  and  dignified  courtesy  he  used  to  step  over 
its  threshold,  saluting  its  inmates  with  the  same  air  of  gra- 
cious condescension  and  patronage  with  which  in  better 
days  he  had  delighted  the  hearts  of  his  parishioners.  Poor 
old  man !  He  had  once  been  the  admired  and  almost  wor- 
shipped minister  of  the  largest  church  in  the  town  where 
he  afterwards  found  support  in  the  winter  season  as  a  pau- 


YANKEE   GYPSIES.  9 

per.  He  had  early  fallen  into  intemperate  habits ;  and  at 
the  age  of  threescore  and  ten,  when  I  remember  him,  he 
was  only  sober  when  he  lacked  the  means  of  being  other- 
wise. Drunk  or  sober,  however,  he  never  altogether  forgot 
the  proprieties  of  his  profession ;  he  was  always  grave, 
decorous,  and  gentlemanly ;  he  held  fast  the  form  of  sound 
words,  and  the  weakness  of  the  flesh  abated  nothing  of  the 
rigor  of  his  stringent  theology.  He  had  been  a  favorite 
pupil  of  the  learned  and  astute  Emmons,  and  was  to  the 
last  a  sturdy  defender  of  the  peculiar  dogmas  of  his  school. 
The  last  time  we  saw  him  he  was  holding  a  meeting  in  our 
district  school-house,  with  a  vagabond  pedler  for  deacon 
and  travelling  companion.  The  tie  which  united  the  ill- 
assorted  couple  was  doubtless  the  same  which  endeared 
Tarn  O'Shanter  to  the  souter :  — 

"  They  had  been  fou  for  weeks  thegither." 

He  took  for  his  text  the  first  seven  verses  of  the  concluding 
chapter  of  Ecclesiastes,  furnishing  in  himself  its  fitting 
illustration.  The  evil  days  had  come ;  the  keepers  of  the 
house  trembled;  the  windows  of  life  were  darkened.  A 
few  months  later  the  silver  cord  was  loosened,  the  golden 
bowl  was  broken,  and  between  the  poor  old  man  and  the 
temptations  which  beset  him  fell  the  thick  curtains  of  the 
grave. 

One  day  we  had  a  call  from  a  "  pawky  auld  carle  "  of  a 
wandering  Scotchman.  To  him  I  owe  my  first  introduction 
to  the  songs  of  Burns.  After  eating  his  bread  and  cheese 
and  drinking  his  mug  of  cider  he  gave  us  Bonnie  Doon, 
Highland  Mary,  and  Auld  Lang  Syne.  He  had  a  rich,  full 
voice,  and  entered  heartily  into  the  spirit  of  his  lyrics.  I 
have  since  listened  to  the  same  melodies  from  the  lips  of 
Dempster  (than  whom  the  Scottish  bard  has  had  no 
sweeter  or  truer  interpreter) ;  but  the  skilful  performance 
of  the  artist  lacked  the  novel  charm  of  the  gaberlunzie's 
1* 


10  JOHN    G.  WHITTIER. 

siri^inf  in  the  old  farm-house  kitchen.     Another  wanderer 

C       o 

made  us  acquainted  with  the  humorous  old  ballad  of  "  Our 
gude  man  cam  hame  at  e'en."  He  applied  for  supper  and 
lodging,  and  the  next  morning  was  set  at  work  splitting 
stones  in  the  pasture.  While  thus  engaged  the  village 
doctor  came  riding  along  the  highway  on  his  fine,  spirited 
horse,  and  stopped  to  talk  with  my  father.  The  fellow 
eyed  the  animal  attentively,  as  if  familiar  with  all  his  good 
points,  and  hummed  over  a  stanza  of  the  old  poem :  — 

"  Our  gude  man  cam  hame  at  e'en, 

And  hame  cam  he ; 
And  there  he  saw  a  saddle  horse 

Where  nae  horse  shou!4  be. 
'  How  cam  this  horse  here  ? 

How  can  it  be  ? 
How  cam  this  horse  here 

Without  the  leave  of  me  ? ' 
'  A  horse  ?  '  quo  she. 
'  Ay,  a  horse/  quo  he. 
'  Ye  auld  fool,  ye  blind  fool,  — 

And  blinder  might  ye  be,  — 
'T  is  naething  but  a  milking  cow 

My  mamma  sent  to  me.' 
A  milch  cow  ?  '  quo  he. 
Ay,  a  milch  cow,'  quo  she. 
Weel,  far  hae  I  ridden, 

And  muckle  hae  I  seen ; 
But  milking  cows  wi'  saddles  on 

Saw  I  never  nane.' " 

That  very  night  the  rascal  decamped,  taking  with  him 
the  doctor's  horse,  and  was  never  after  heard  of. 

Often,  in  the  gray  of  the  morning,  we  used  to  see  one  or 
more  "  gaberlunzie  men,"  pack  on  shoulder  and  staff  in 
hand,  emerging  from  the  barn  or  other  out-building  where 
they  had  passed  the  night.  I  was  once  sent  to  the  barn  to 
fodder  the  cattle  late  in  the  evening,  and,  climbing  into  the 


YANKEE    GYPSIES.  11 

mow  to  pitch  down  hay  for  that  purpose,  I  was  startled  by 
the  sudden  apparition  of  a  man  rising  up  before  me,  just 
discernible  in  the  dim  moonlight  streaming  through  the 
seams  of  the  boards.  I  made  a  rapid  retreat  down  the  lad- 
der ;  and  was  only  reassured  by  hearing  the  object  of  my 
terror  calling  after  me,  and  recognizing  his  voice  as  that  of 
a  harmless  old  pilgrim  whom  I  had  known  before.  Our 
farm-house  was  situated  in  a  lonely  valley,  half  surrounded 
with  woods,  with  no  neighbors  in  sight.  One  dark,  cloudy 
night,  when  our  parents  chanced  to  be  absent,  we  were  sit- 
ting with  our  aged  grandmother  in  the  fading  light  of  the 
kitchen  fire,  working  ourselves  into  a  very  satisfactory  state 
of  excitement  and  terror  by  recounting  to  each  other  all  the 
dismal  'stories  we  could  remember  of  ghosts,  witches, 
haunted  houses,  and  robbers,  when  we  were  suddenly  start- 
led by  a  loud  rap  at  the  door.  A  stripling  of  fourteen,  I 
was  very  naturally  regarded  as  the  head  of  the  household ; 
so,  with  many  misgivings,  I  advanced  to  the  door,  which  I 
slowly  opened,  holding  the  candle  tremulously  above  my 
head  and  peering  out  into  the  darkness.  The  feeble  glim- 
mer played  upon  the  apparition  of  a  gigantic  horseman, 
mounted  on  a  steed  of  a  size  worthy  of  such  a  rider  — 
colossal,  motionless,  like  images  cut  out  of  the  solid  night 
The  strange  visitant  gruffly  saluted  me ;  and,  after  making 
several  ineffectual  efforts  to  urge  his  horse  in  at  the  door, 
dismounted  and  followed  me  into  the  room,  evidently  enjoy- 
ing the  terror  which  his  huge  presence  excited.  Announc- 
ing himself  as  the  great  "Indian  doctor,  he  drew  himself  up 
before  the  fire,  stretched  his  arms,  clinched  his  fists,  struck 
his  broad  chest,  and  invited  our  attention  to  what  he  called 
his  "  mortal  frame."  He  demanded  in  succession  all  kinds 
of  intoxicating  liquors ;  and,  on  being  assured  that  we  had 
none  to  give  him,  he  grew  angry,  threatened  to  swallow  my 
younger  brother  alive,  and,  seizing  me  by  the  hair  of  my 
head  as  the  angel  did  the  prophet  at  Babylon,  led  me  about 


12  JOHN    G.  WHITTIER. 

from  room  to  room.  After  an  ineffectual  search,  in  the 
course  of  which  he  mistook  a  jug  of  oil  for  one  of  brandy, 
and,  contrary  to  my  explanations  and  remonstrances,  insisted 
upon  swallowing  a  portion  of  its  contents,  he  released  me, 
fell  to  crying  and  sobbing,  and  confessed  that  he  was  so  drunk 
already  that  his  hoi'se  was  ashamed  of  him.  After  bemoan- 
ing and  pitying  himself  to  his  satisfaction  he  wiped  his  eyes, 
and  sat  down  by  the  side  of  my  grandmother,  giving  her  to 
understand  that  he  was  very  much  pleased  with  her  appear- 
ance ;  adding,  that,  if  agreeable  to  her,  he  should  like  the 
privilege  of  paying  his  addresses  to  her.  While  vainly 
endeavoring  to  make  the  excellent  old  lady  comprehend  his 
very  flattering  proposition  he  was  interrupted  by  the  return 
of  my  father,  who,  at  once  understanding  the  matter,  turned 
him  out  of  doors  without  ceremony. 

On  one  occasion,  a  few  years  ago,  on  my  return  from  the 
field  at  evening,  I  was  told  that  a  foreigner  had  asked  for 
lodgings  during  the  night,  but  that,  influenced  by  his  dark, 
repulsive  appearance,  my  mother  had  very  reluctantly  re- 
fused his  request.  I  found  her  by  no  means  satisfied  with 
her  decision.  "  What  if  a  son  of  mine  was  in  a  strange 
land  ?  "  she  inquired,  self-reproachfully.  Greatly  to  her  re- 
lief, I  volunteered  to  go  in  pursuit  of  the  wanderer,  and, 
taking  a  crosspath  over  the  fields,  soon  overtook  him.  He 
had  just  been  rejected  at  the  house  of  our  nearest  neighbor, 
and  was  standing  in  a  state  of  dubious  perplexity  in  the 
street.  His  looks  quite  justified  my  mother's  suspicions. 
He  was  an  olive-complexioned,  black-bearded  Italian,  with 
an  eye  like  a  live  coal,  such  a  face  as  perchance  looks  out 
on  the  traveller  in  the  passes  of  the  Abruzzi,  —  one  of  those 
bandit  visages  which  Salvator  has  painted.  With  some  dif- 
ficulty I  gave  him  to  understand  my  errand,  when  he  over- 
whelmed me  with  thanks  and  joyfully  followed  me  back. 
He  took  his  seat  with  us  at  the  supper-table  ;  and,  when  we 
were  all  gathered  around  the  hearth  that  cold  autumnal 


YANKEE    GYPSIES.  13 

evening,  he  told  us,  partly  by  words  and  partly  by  gestures, 
the  story  of  his  life  and  misfortunes,  amused  us  with  descrip- 
tions of  the  grape-gatherings  and  festivals  of  his  sunny  clime, 
edified  my  mother  with  a  recipe  for  making  bread  of  chest- 
nuts ;  and  in  the  morning,  when,  after  breakfast,  his  dark, 
sullen  face  lighted  up  and  his  fierce  eye  moistened  with 
grateful  emotion  as  in  his  own  silvery  Tuscan  accent  he 
poured  out  his  thanks,  we  marvelled  at  the  fears  which  had 
so  nearly  closed  our  door  against  him ;  and,  as  he  departed, 
we  all  felt  that  he  had  left  with  us  the  blessing  of  the  poor. 

It  was  not  often  that,  as  in  the  above  instance,  my  moth- 
er's prudence  got  the  better  of  her  charity.  The  regular 
"  old  stragglers "  regarded  her  as  an  unfailing  friend ;  and 
the  sight  of  her  plain  cap  was  to  them  an  assurance  of  forth- 
coming creature  comforts.  There  was  indeed  a  tribe  of  lazy 
strollers,  having  their  place  of  rendezvous  in  the  town  of 
Barrington,  New  Hampshire,  whose  low  vices  had  placed 
them  beyond  even  the  pale  of  her  benevolence.  They  were 
not  unconscious  of  their  evil  reputation ;  and  experience  had 
taught  them  the  necessity  of  concealing,  under  well-contrived 
disguises,  their  true  character.  They  came  to  us  in  all 
shapes  and  with  all  appearances  save  the  true  one,  with 
most  miserable  stories  of  mishap  and  sickness  and  all  "the 
ills  which  flesh  is  heir  to."  It  was  particularly  vexatious 
to  discover,  when  too  late,  that  our  sympathies  and  chari- 
ties had  been  expended  upon  such  graceless  vagabonds  as 
the  "  Barrington  beggars."  An  old  withered  hag,  known  by 
the  appellation  of  Hopping  Pat,  —  the  wise  woman  of  her 
tribe,  —  was  in  the  habit  of  visiting  us,  with  her  hopeful 
grandson,  who  had  "a  gift  for  preaching"  as  well  as  for 
many  other  things  not  exactly  compatible  with  holy  orders. 
He  sometimes  brought  with  him  a  tame  crow,  a  shrewd, 
knavish-looking  bird,  who,  when  in  the  humor  for  it,  could 
talk  like  Barnaby  Rudge's  raven.  He  used  to  say  he  could 
"  do  nothin'  at  exhortin'  without  a  white  handkercher  on  his 


14  JOHN    G.   WHITTIER. 

neck  and  money  in  his  pocket "  —  a  fact  going  far  to  confirm 
the  opinions  of  the  Bishop  of  Exeter  and  the  Puseyites  gen- 
erally, that  there  can  be  no  priest  without  tithes  and  surplice. 

These  people  have  for  several  generations  lived  distinct 
from  the  great  mass  of  the  community,  like  the  gypsies  of 
Europe,  whom  in  many  respects  they  closely  resemble. 
They  have  the  same  settled  aversion  to  labor  and  the  same 
disposition  to  avail  themselves  of  the  fruits  of  the  industry 
of  others.  They  love  a  wild,  out-of-door  life,  sing  songs, 
tell  fortunes,  and  have  an  instinctive  hatred  of  "  missionaries 
and  cold  water."  It  has  been  said  —  I  know  not  upon  what 
grounds  —  that  their  ancestors  were  indeed  a  veritable  im- 
portation of  English  gypsyhood ;  but  if  so,  they  have  un- 
doubtedly lost  a  good  deal  of  the  picturesque  charm  of  its 
unhoused  and  free  condition.  I  very  much  fear  that  my 
friend  Mary  Russell  Mitford,  —  sweetest  of  England's  rural 
painters,  —  who  has  a  poet's  eye  for  the  fine  points  in 
gypsy  character,  would  scarcely  allow  their  claims  to  frater- 
nity with  her  own  vagrant  friends,  whose  camp-fires  wel- 
comed her  to  her  new  home  at  Swallowfield. 

"  The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man  " ;  and,  according 
to  my  view,  no  phase  of  our  common  humanity  is  altogether 
unworthy  of  investigation.  Acting  upon  this  belief  two  or 
three  summers  ago,  when  making,  in  company  with  my  sis- 
ter, a  little  excursion  into  the  hill  country  of  New  Hamp- 
shire, I  turned  my  horse's  head  towards  Barrington  for  the 
purpose  of  seeing  these  semi-civilized  strollers  in  their  own 
home,  and  returning,  once  for  all,  their  numerous  visits. 
Taking  leave  of  our  hospitable  cousins  in  old  Lee  with 
about  as  much  solemnity  as  we  may  suppose  Major  Laing 
parted  with  his  friends  when  he  set  out  in  search  of  desert- 
girdled  Timbuctoo,  we  drove  several  miles  over  a  rough 
road,  passed  the  Devil's  Den  unmolested,  crossed  a  fretful 
little  streamlet  noisily  working  its  way  into  a  valley,  where 
it  turned  a  lonely,  half-ruinous  mill,  and  climbing  a  steep 


YANKEE   GYPSIES.  35 

hill  beyond,  saw  before  us  a  wide  sandy  level,  skirted  on  the 
west  and  north  by  low,  scraggy  hills,  and  dotted  here  and 
there  with  dwarf  pitch  pines.  In  the  centre  of  this  desolate 
region  were  some  twenty  or  thirty  small  dwellings,  grouped 
together  as  irregularly  as  a  Hottentot  kraal.  Unfenced, 
unguarded,  open  to  all  comers  and  goers,  stood  that  city  of 
the  beggars  —  no  wall  or  paling  between  the  ragged  cabins 
to  remind  one  of  the  jealous  distinctions  of  property.  The 
great  idea  of  its  founders  seemed  visible  in  its  unappropri- 
ated freedom.  Was  not  the  whole  round  world  their  own  ? 
and  should  they  haggle  about  boundaries  and  title  deeds  ? 
For  them,  on  distant  plains,  ripened  golden  harvests;  for 
them,  in  far-off  workshops,  busy  hands  were  toiling ;  for 
them,  if  they  had  but  the  grace  to  note  it,  the  broad  earth 
put  on  her  garniture  of  beauty,  and  over  them  hung  the 
silent  mystery  of  heaven  and  its  stars.  That  comfortable 
philosophy  which  modern  transcendentalism  has  but  dimly 
shadowed  forth  —  that  poetic  agrarianism,  which  gives  all 
to  each  and  each  to  all  —  is  the  real  life  of  this  city  of'  un- 
work.  To  each  of  its  dingy  dwellers  might  be  not  unaptly 
applied  the  language  of  one  who,  I  trust,  will  pardon  me  for 
quoting  her  beautiful  poem  in  this  connection :  — 

"  Other  hands  may  grasp  the  field  or  forest, 
Proud  proprietors  in  pomp  may  shine ; 
Thou  art  wealthier — all  the  world  is  thine." 

But  look !  the  clouds  are  breaking.  "  Fair  weather  com- 
eth  out  of  the  north."  The  wind  has  blown  away  the  mists ; 
on  the  gilded  spire  of  John  Street  glimmers  a  beam  of  sun- 
shine ;  and  there  is  the  sky  again,  hard,  blue,  and  cold  in  its 
eternal  purity,  not  a  whit  the  worse  for  the  storm.  In  the 
beautiful  present  the  past  is  no  longer  needed.  Reverently 
and  gratefully  let  its  volume  be  laid  aside ;  and  when  again 
the  shadows  of  the  outward  world  fall  upon  the  spirit,  may 
I  not  lack  a  good  angel  to  remind  me  of  its  solace,  even  if 
he  comes  in  the  shape  of  a  Barrington  beggar. 


D  A  R  A. 

BY  JAMES  KUSSELL   LOWELL 

WHEN  Persia's  sceptre  trembled  in  a  hand 
Wilted  with  harem-heats,  and  all  the  land 
Was  hovered  over  by  those  vulture  ills 
That  snuff  decaying  empire  from  afar, 
Then,  with  a  nature  balanced  as  a  star, 
Dara  arose,  a  shepherd  of  the  hills. 

He  who  had  governed  fleecy  subjects  well, 

Made  his  own  village  by  the  self-same  spell 

Secure  and  quiet  as  a  guarded  fold ; 

Then,  gathering  strength  by  slow  and  wise  degrees, 

Under  his  sway,  to  neighbor  villages 

Order  returned,  and  faith,  and  justice  old. 

Now  when  it  fortuned  that  a  king  more  wise 
Endued  the  realm  with  brain,  and  hands,  and  eyes, 
He  sought  on  every  side  men  brave  and  just ; 
And  having  heard  our  mountain  shepherd's  praise, 
How  he  refilled  the  mould  of  elder  days, 
To  Dara  gave  a  satrapy  in  trust. 

So  Dara  shepherded  a  province  wide, 

Nor  in  his  viceroy's  sceptre  took  more  pride 

Than  in  his  crook  before ;  but  envy  finds 


DARA.  17 

More  food  in  cities  than  on  mountains  bare ; 
And  the  frank  sun  of  spirits  clear  and  rare 
Breeds  poisonous  fogs  in  low  and  marish  minds. 

Soon  it  was  whispered  at  the  royal  ear 
That,  though  wise  Dara's  province,  year  by  year, 
Like  a  great  sponge,  sucked  wealth  and  plenty  up, 
Yet,  when  he  squeezed  it  at  the  king's  behest, 
Some  yellow  drops  more  rich  than  all  the  rest 
"Went  to  the  filling  of  his  private  cup. 

For  proof,  they  said  that,  wheresoe'er  he  went, 
A  chest,  beneath  whose  weight  the  camel  bent, 
Went  with  him ;  and  no  mortal  eye  had  seen 
What  was  therein,  save  only  Dara's  own. 
But,  when  't  was  opened,  all  his  tent  was  known 
To  glow  and  lighten  with  heaped  jewels'  sheen. 

The  king  set.forth  for  Dara's  province  straight, 
Where,  as.was  fit,  outside  the  city's  gate, 
The  viceroy  met  him  with  a  stately  train, 
And  there,  with  archers  circled,  close  at  hand, 
A  camel  with  the  chest  was  seen  to  stand. 
The  king's  brow  reddened,  for  the  guilt  was  plain. 

"  Open  me  here,"  he  cried,  "  this  treasure  chest." 

'T  was  done,  and  only  a  worn  shepherd's  vest 

Was  found  within.     Some  blushed  and  hung  the  head ; 

Not  Dara ;  open  as  the  sky's  blue  roof 

He  stood,  and  "  0  my  lord,  behold  the  proof 

That  I  was  faithful  to  my  trust,"  he  said. 

"  To  govern  men,  lo,  all  the  spell  I  had ! 
My  soul  in  these  rude  vestments  ever  clad 
Still  to  the  unstained  past  kept  true  and  leal, 


18  JAMES  RUSSELL   LOWELL. 

Still  on  these  plains  could  breathe  her  mountain  air, 

And  fortune's  heaviest  gifts  serenely  bear, 

Which  bend  men  from  their  truth  and  make  them  reel. 

"  For  ruling  wisely  I  should  have  small  skill, 
Were  I  not  lord  of  simple  Dara  still : 
That  sceptre  kept,  I  could  not  lose  my  way." 
Strange  dew  in  royal  eyes  grew  round  and  bright, 
And  strained  the  throbbing  lids ;  before  't  was  night, 
Two  added  provinces  blest  Dara's  sway.    - 


. 


CROMWELL. 

By    THOMAS    CARLYLE. 

CKOMWELL'S  BIRTHPLACE. 

HUNTINGDON  itself  lies  pleasantly  along  the  left 
bank  of  the  Ouse,  sloping  pleasantly  upwards  from 
Ouse  Bridge,  which  connects  it  with  the  old  village  of  God- 
manchester ;  the  Town  itself  consisting  mainly  of  one  fair 
street,  which  towards  the  north  end  of  it  opens  into  a  kind 
of  irregular  market-place,  and  then  contracting  again  soon 
terminates.  The  two  churches  of  All-Saints'  and  St.  John's, 
as  you  walk  up  northward  from  the  Bridge,  appear  success- 
ively on  your  left ;  the  church-yards  flanked  with  shops  or 
other  houses.  The  Ouse,  which  is  of  very  circular  course 
in  this  quarter,  winding  as  if  reluctant  to  enter  the  Fen- 
country, —  says  one  topographer,  has  still  a  respectable 
drab-color  gathered  from  the  clays  of  Bedfordshire,  has 
uot  yet  the  Stygian  black  which  in  a  few  miles  further  it 
assumes  for  good.  Huntingdon,  as  it  were,  looks  over  into 
the  Fens ;  Godmanchester,  just  across  the  river,  already 
stands  on  black  bog.  The  country  to  the  East  is  all  Fen 
(mostly  unreclaimed  in  Oliver's  time,  and  still  of  a  very 
dropsical  character)  ;  to  the  "West  it  is  hard  green  ground, 
agreeably  broken  into  little  heights,  duly  fringed  with  wood, 
and  bearing  marks  of  comfortable  long-continued  cultivation. 
Here,  on  the  edge  of  the  firm  green  land,  and  looking  over 
into  the  black  marshes  with  their  alder-trees  and  willow- 
trees,  did  Oliver  Cromwell  pass  his  young  years. 


20  THOMAS  CARLYLE. 


COINCIDENCES. 

WHILE  Oliver  Cromwell  was  entering  himself  of  Sidney- 
Sussex  College,  William  Shakespeare  was  taking  his  fare- 
well of  this  world.  Oliver's  Father  had,  most  likely,  come 
with  him ;  it  is  but  some  fifteen  miles  from  Huntingdon ; 
you  can  go  and  come  in  a  day.  Oliver's  Father  saw  Oliver 
write  in  the  Album  at  Cambridge :  at  Stratford,  Shake- 
speare's Ann  Hathaway  was  weeping  over  his  bed.  The 
first  world-great  thing  that  remains  of  English  History,  the 
Literature  of  Shakespeare,  was  ending ;  the  second  world- 
great  thing  that  remains  of  English  History,  the  armed 
Appeal  of  Puritanism  to  the  Invisible  God  of  Heaven 
against  many  very  visible  Devils,  on  Earth  and  Elsewhere, 
was,  so  to  speak,  beginning.  They  have  their  exits  and  their 
entrances.  And  one  People,  in  its  time,  plays  many  parts. 

Chevalier  Florian,  in  his  "  Life  of  Cervantes,"  has  re- 
marked that  Shakespeare's  death-day,  23d  April,  1616, 
was  likewise  that  of  Cervantes  at  Madrid.  "  Twenty-third 
of  April "  is,  sure  enough,  the  authentic  Spanish  date :  but 
Chevalier  Florian  has  omitted  to  notice  that  the  English 
twenty-third  is  of  Old  Style.  The  brave  Miguel  died  ten 
days  before  Shakespeare ;  and  already  lay  buried,  smoothed 
right  nobly  into  his  long  rest.  The  Historical  Student  can 
meditate  on  these  things. 


HIS    CONVERSION. 

IN  those  years  it  must  be  that  Dr.  Simcott,  Physician  in 
Huntingdon,  had  to  do  with  Oliver's  hypochondriac  mala- 
dies. He  told  Sir  Philip  Warwick,  unluckily  specifying  no 
date,  or  none  that  has  survived,  "  he  had  often  been  sent  for 


CROMWELL.  21 

at  midnight:"  Mr.  Cromwell  for  many  years  was  very 
"  splenetic  "  (spleen-struck),  often  thought  he  was  just  about 
to  die,  and  also  "  had  fancies  about  the  Town  Cross." 
Brief  intimation,  of  which  the  reflecting  reader  may  make  a 
great  deal.  Samuel  Johnson,  too,  had  hypochondrias;  all 
great  souls  are  apt  to  have,  —  and  to  be  in  thick  darkness 
generally,  till  the  eternal  ways  and  the  celestial  guiding- 
stars  disclose  themselves,  and  the  vague  Abyss  of  Life  knit 
itself  up  into  Firmaments  for  them.  Temptations  in  the 
wilderness,  Choices  of  Hercules,  and  the  like,  in  succinct  or 
loose  form,  are  appointed  for  every  man  that  will  assert  a 
soul  in  himself  and  be  a  man.  Let  Oliver  take  comfort  in 
his  dark  sorrows  and  melancholies.  The  quantity  of  sor- 
row he  has,  does  it  not  mean  withal  the  quantity  of  sym- 
pathy he  has,  the  quantity  of  faculty  and  victory  he  shall 
yet  have  ?  Our  sorrow  is  the  inverted  image  of  our  noble- 
ness. The  depth  of  our  despair  measures  what  capability 
and  height  of  claim  we  have  to  hope.  Black  smoke  as  of 
Tophet  filling  all  your  universe,  it  can  yet  by  true  heart- 
energy  become  flame,  and  brilliancy  of  Heaven.  Courage  ! 
It  is  therefore  in  these  years,  undated  by  History,  that  we 
must  place  Oliver's  clear  recognition  of  Calvinistic  Chris- 
tianity ;  what  he,  with  unspeakable  joy,  would  name  his  Con- 
version, —  his  deliverance  from  the  jaws  of  Eternal  Death. 
Certainly  a  grand  epoch  for  a  man :  properly  the  one 
epoch;  the  turning-point  which  guides  upwards,  or  guides 
downwards,  him  and  his  activity  for  evermore.  Wilt  thou 
join  with  the  dragons ;  wilt  thou  join  with  the  Gods  ?  Of 
thee,  too,  the  question  is  asked ;  —  whether  by  a  man  in 
Geneva  gown,  by  a  man  in  "  Four  surplices  at  Allhallow- 
tide,"  with  words  very  imperfect  ;  or  by  no  man  and  no 
words,  but  only  by  the  Silences,  by  the  Eternities,  by  the 
Life  everlasting  and  the  Death  everlasting.  That  the 
"  Sense  of  difference  between  Right  and  Wrong  "  had  filled 
all  Time  and  all  Space  for  man,  and  bodied  itself  forth  into 


22  THOMAS    CARLYLE. 

a  Heaven  and  Hell  for  him  ;  this  constitutes  the  grand  fea- 
ture of  those  Puritan,  Old-Christian  Ages;  —  this  is- the 
element  which  stamps  them  as  Heroic,  and  has  rendered 
their  works  great,  manlike,  fruitful  to  all  generations.  It  is 
by  far  the  memorablest  achievement  of  our  Species ;  with- 
out that  element  in  some  form  or  other,  nothing  of  Heroic 
had  ever  been  among  us. 

For  many  centuries  Catholic  Christianity  —  a  fit  embodi- 
ment of  that  divine  Sense  —  had  been  current  more  or  less, 
making  the  generations  noble :  and  here  in  England,  in  the 
Century  called  the  Seventeenth,  we  see  the  last  aspect  of  it 
hitherto,  —  not  the  last  of  all,  it  is  to  be  hoped.  Oliver 
was  henceforth  a  Christian  man ;  believed  in  God,  not  on 
Sundays  only,  but  on  all  days,  in  all  places,  and  in  all  cases. 


CHARLES    AND    THE    PARLIAMENT. 

SIR  OLIVER  CROMWELL  has  faded  from  the  Parliament- 
ary scene  into  the  deep  Fen-country,  but  Oliver  Cromwell, 
Esq.  appears  there  as  Member  for  Huntingdon,  at  West- 
minster "on  Monday,  the  17th  of  March,"  1627-8.  This 
was  the  Third  Parliament  of  Charles ;  by  much  the  most 
notable  of  all  Parliaments  till  Charles's  Long  Parliament 
met,  which  proved  his  last. 

Having  sharply,  with  swift  impetuosity  and  indignation, 
dismissed  two  Parliaments  because  they  would  not "  supply  " 
him  without  taking  "  grievances "  along  with  them  ;  and, 
meanwhile  and  afterwards,  having  failed  in  every  operation 
foreign  and  domestic,  at  Cadiz,  at  Ehe",  at  Eochelle  ;  and 
having  failed,  too,  in  getting  supplies  by  unparliamentary 
methods,  Charles  "  consulted  with  Sir  Robert  Cotton  what 
was  to  be  done  ; "  who  answered,  Summon  a  Parliament 
again.  So  this  celebrated  Parliament  was  summoned.  It 


CROMWELL.  23 

met,  as  we  said,  in  March,  1628,  and  continued  with  one 
prorogation  till  March,  1629.  The  two  former  Parliaments 
had  sat  but  a  few  weeks  each,  till  they  were  indignantly 
hurled  asunder  again ;  this  one  continued  nearly  a  year. 
"Wentworth  (Strafford)  was  of  this  Parliament ;  Hampden, 
too,  Selden,  Pym,  Holies,  and  others  known  to  us ;  all  these 
had  been  of  former  Parliaments  as  well ;  Oliver  Cromwell, 
Member  for  Huntingdon,  sat  there  for  the  first  time. 

It  is  very  evident,  King  Charles,  baffled  in  all  his  enter- 
prises, and  reduced  really  to  a  kind  of  crisis,  wished  much 
this  Parliament  should  succeed ;  and  took  what  he  must  have 
thought  incredible  pains  for  that  end.  The  poor  King 
strives  visibly  throughout  to  control  himself,  to  be  soft  and 
patient ;  inwardly  writhing  and  rustling  with  royal  rage. 
Unfortunate  King,  we  see  him  chafing,  stamping,  —  a  very 
fiery  steed,  but  bridled,  check-bitted,  by  innumerable  straps 
and  considerations ;  struggling  much  to  be  composed. 
Alas !  it  would  not  do.  This  Parliament  was  more  Puri- 
tanic, more  intent  on  rigorous  Law  and  divine  Gospel, 
than  any  other  had  ever  been.  As  indeed  all  these  Parlia- 
ments grow  strangely  in  Puritianism  ;  more  and  ever  more 
earnest  rises  from  the  hearts  of  them  all,  "  O  Sacred  Majes- 
ty, lead  us  not  to  Antichrist,  to  Illegality,  to  temporal  and 
eternal  Perdition  ! "  The  Nobility  and  Gentry  of  England 
were  then  a  very  strange  body  of  men.  The  English 
Squire  of  the  Seventeenth  Century  clearly  appears  to  have 
believed  in  God,  not  as  a  figure  of  speech,  but  as  a  very 
fact,  very  awful  to  the  heart  of  the  English  Squire.  "  He 
wore  his  Bible  doctrine  round  him,"  says  one,  "as  our 
Squire  wears  his  shotbelt ;  went  abroad  with  it,  nothing 
doubting."  King  Charles  was  going  on  his  father's  course, 
only  with  frightful  acceleration :  he  and  his  respectable 
Traditions  and  Notions,  clothed  in  old  sheepskin  and 
respectable  Church-tippets,  were  all  pulling  one  way; 
England  and  the  Eternal  Laws  pulling  another;  the  rent 
fast  widening  till  no  man  could  heal  it 


24  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

This  was  the  celebrated  Parliament  which  framed  the  Peti- 
tion of  Right,  and  set  London  all  astir  with  "  bells  and-bon- 
fires"  at  the  passing  thereof;  and  did  other  feats  not  to  be 
particularized  here.  Across  the  murkiest  element  in  which 
any  great  Entity  was  ever  shown  to  human  creatures,  it  still 
rises,  after  much  consideration,  to  the  modern  man,  in  a  dim 
but  undeniable  manner,  as  a  most  brave  and  noble  Parlia- 
ment. The  like  of  which  were  worth  its  weight  in  dia- 
monds even  now ;  but  has  grown  very  unattainable  now, 
next  door  to  incredible  now.  We  have  to  say  that  this  Par- 
liament chastised  sycophant  Priests,  Mainwaring,  Sibthorp, 
and  other  Arminian  sycophants,  a  disgrace  to  God's 
Church;  that  it  had  an  eye  to  other  still  more  elevated 
Church-sycophants,  as  the  mainspring  of  all ;  but  was  cau- 
tious to  give  offence  by  naming  them.  That  it  carefully 
"  abstained  from  naming  the  Duke  of  Buckingham."  That 
it  decided  on  giving  ample  subsidies,  but  not  till  there  were 
reasonable  discussion  of  grievances.  That  in  manner  it  was 
most  gentle,  soft-spoken,  cautious,  reverential ;  and  in  sub- 
stance most  resolute  and  valiant.  Truly  with  valiant,  pa- 
tient energy,  in  a  slow,  steadfast  English  manner,  it  car- 
ried, across  infinite  confused  opposition  and  discouragement, 
its  Petition  of  Right,  and  what  else  it  had  to  carry.  Four 
hundred  brave  men,  —  brave  men  and  true,  after  their  sort ! 
One  laments  to  find  such  a  Parliament  smothered  under 
Dryasdust's  shot-rubbish.  The  memory  of  it,  could  any 
real  memory  of  it  rise  upon  honorable  gentlemen  and  us, 
might  be  admonitory,  —  would  be  astonishing  at  least. 


A    GENTLEMAN   FAKMER. 

IN  or  soon  after  1631,  as  we  laboriously  infer  from  the 
imbroglio  records   of  poor   Noble,  Oliver   decided  on   an 


CROMWELL.  25 

enlarged  sphere  of  action  as  a  Farmer;  sold  his  properties 
in  Huntingdon,  all  or  some  of  them  ;  rented  certain  grazing- 
lands  at  St.  Ives,  five  miles  down  the  River,  eastward  of  his 
native  place,  and  removed  thither.  The  Deed  of  Sale  is 
dated  7th  May,  1631 ;  the  properties  are  specified  as  in  the 
possession  of  himself  or  his  Mother  ;  the  sum  they  yielded 
was  £1800.  With  this  sum  Oliver  stocked  his  Grazing- 
Farm  at  St.  Ives.  The  Mother,  we  infer,  continued  to 
reside  at  Huntingdon,  but  withdrawn  now  from  active  occu- 
pation, in  the  retirement  befitting  a  widow  up  in  years. 
There  is  even  some  gleam  of  evidence  to  that  effect :  her 
properties  are  sold ;  but  Oliver's  children  born  to  him  at  St. 
Ives  are  still  christened  at  Huntingdon,  in  the  Church  he 
was  used  to ;  which  may  mean  also  that  their  good  Grand- 
mother was  still  there. 

Properly  this  was  no  change  in  Oliver's  old  activities  ;  it 
was  an  enlargement  of  the  sphere  of  them.  His  Mother 
still  at  Huntingdon,  within  few  miles  of  him,  he  could  still 
superintend  and  protect  her  existence  there,  while  managing 
his  new  operations  at  St.  Ives.  He  continued  here  till  the 
summer  or  spring  of  1636.  A  studious  imagination  may 
sufficiently  construct  the  figure  of  his  equable  life  in  those 
years.  Diligent  grass-farming ;  mowing,  milking,  cattle- 
marketing :  add  "  hypocondria,"  fits  of  the  blackness  of 
darkness,  with  glances  of  the  brightness  of  very  Heaven  ; 
prayer,  religious  reading  and  meditation ;  household  epochs, 
joys,  and  cares  :  —  we  have  a  solid,  substantial,  inoffensive 
Farmer  of  St.  Ives,  hoping  to  walk  with  integrity  and  hum- 
ble devout  diligence  through  this  world  ;  and,  by  his  Mak- 
er's infinite  mercy,  to  escape  destruction,  and  find  eternal 
salvation  in  wider  Divine  Worlds.  This  latter,  this  is  the 
grand  clause  in  his  Life,  which  dwarfs  all  other  clauses. 
Much  wider  destinies  than  he  anticipated  were  appointed 
him  on  Earth ;  but  that,  in  comparison  to  the  alternative  of 
Heaven  or  Hell  to  all  Eternity,  was  a  mighty  small  matter. 

2 


26  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 


VESTIGES. 

OLIVER,  as  we  observed,  has  left  hardly  any  memorial  of 
himself  at  St.  Ives.  The  ground  he  farmed  is  still  partly 
capable  of  being  specified,  certain  records  or  leases  being 
still  in  existence.  It  lies  at  the  lower  or  South-east  end  of 
the  Town  ;  a  stagnant  flat  tract  of  land,  extending  between 
the  houses  or  rather  kitchen-gardens  of  St.  Ives  in  that 
quarter,  and  the  banks  of  the  River,  which,  very  tortuous 
always,  has  made  a  new  bend  here.  If  well  drained,  this 
land  looks  as  if  it  would  produce  abundant  grass,  but  natur- 
ally it  must  be  little  other  than  a  bog.  Tall  bushy  ranges 
of  willow-trees  and  the  like,  at  present,  divide  it  into  fields ; 
the  River,  not  visible  till  you  are  close  on  it,  bounding 
them  all  to  the  South.  At  the  top  of  the  fields  next  to  the 
Town  is  an  ancient  massive  Barn,  still  used  as  such ;  the 
people  call  it  "  Cromwell's  Barn ; "  —  and  nobody  can  prove 
that  it  was  not  his  !  It  was  evidently  some  ancient  man's 
or  series  of  ancient  men's. 

Quitting  St.  Ives  Fen-ward  or  Eastward,  the  last  house 
of  all,  which  stands  on  your  right  hand  among  gardens, 
seemingly  the  best  house  in  the  place,  and  called  Slepe 
Hall,  is  confidently  pointed  out  as  "  Oliver's  House."  It  is 
indisputably  Slepe-Hall  House,  and  Oliver's  Farm  was 
rented  from  the  estate  of  Slepe  Hall.  It  is  at  present  used 
for  a  Boarding-school :  the  worthy  inhabitants  believe  it  to 
be  Oliver's ;  and  even  point  out  his  "  Chapel "  or  secret  Pu- 
ritan Sermon-room  in  the  lower  story  of  the  house :  no  Ser- 
mon-room, as  you  may  well  discern,  but  to  appearance  some 
sort  of  scullery  or  wash-house  or  bake-house.  "  It  was  here 
he  used  to  preacli,"  say  they.  Courtesy  forbids  you  to 
answer,  "  Never  ! "  But  in  fact  there  is  no  likelihood  that 
this  was  Oliver's  House  at  all:  in  its  present  state  it  does 
not  seem  to  be  a  century  old  ;  and  originally,  as  is  like,  it 


CROMWELL.  27 

must  have  served  as  residence  to  the  Proprietors  of  Slepe- 
Hall  estate,  not  to  the  Farmer  of  a  part  thereof.  Tradition 
makes  a  sad  blur  of  Oliver's  memory  in  his  native  country  ! 
We  know,  and  shall  know,  only  this,  for  certain  here,  that 
Oliver  farmed  part  or  whole  of  these  Slepe-Hall  Lands, 
over  which  the  human  feet  can  still  walk  with  assurance  ; 
past  which  the  River  Ouse  still  slumberously  rolls  towards 
Earith  Bulwark  and  the  Fen-country.  Here  of  a  certainty 
Oliver  did  walk  and  look  about  him  habitually  during  those 
five  years  from  1631  to  1G36;  a  man  studious  of  many 
temporal  and  many  eternal  things.  His  cattle  grazed  here, 
his  ploughs  tilled  here,  the  heavenly  skies  and  infernal 

abysses  overarched  and  underarched  him  here 

How  he  lived  at  St.  Ives  :  how  he  saluted  men  on  the 
streets ;  read  Bibles ;  sold  cattle ;  and  walked,  with  heavy 
footfall  and  many  thoughts,  through  the  Market  Green  or 
old  narrow  lanes  in  St.  Ives,  by  the  shore  of  the  black 
Ouse  River,  —  shall  be  left  to  the  reader's  imagination. 
There  is  in  this  man  talent  for  farming ;  there  are  thoughts 
enough,  thoughts  bounded  by  the  Ouse  River,  thoughts  that 
go  beyond  Eternity,  —  and  a  great  black  sea  of  things  that 
he  has  never  yet  been  able  to  think. 


SHIPMONEY. 

Ox  the  very  day  while  Oliver  Cromwell  was  writing  this 
Letter  at  St.  Ives,  two  obscure  individuals,  "  Peter  Aldridge 
and  Thomas  Lane,  Assessors  of  Shipmoney,"  over  in  Buck- 
inghamshire, had  assembled  a  Parish  Meeting  in  the  Church 
of  Great  Kimble,  to  assess,  and  rate  the  Shipmoney  of  the 
said  Parish :  there,  in  the  cold  weather,  at  the  foot  of  the 
Chiltern  Hills,  "11  January,  1635,"  the  Parish  did  attend, 
"  John  Hampden,  Esquire,"  at  the  head  of  them,  and  by  a 


28  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

Return  still  extant,  refused  to  pay  the  same  or  any  portion 
thereof,  —  witness  the  above  "  Assessors,"  witness  also  two 
"  Parish  Constables  "  whom  we  remit  from  such  unexpected 
celebrity.  John  Hampden's  share  for  this  Parish  is  thirty- 
one  shillings  and  sixpence  :  for  another  Parish  it  is  twenty 
shillings ;  on  which  latter  sum,  not  on  the  former,  John 
Hampden  was  tried. 


THE    SHIPMONEY    TRIAL. 

IN  the  end  of  that  same  year  [1637]  there  had  risen  all 
over  England  huge  rumors  concerning  the  Shipmoney  Trial 
at  London.  On  the  6th  of  November,  1637,  this  important 
Process  of  Mr.  Hampden's  began.  Learned  Mr.  St.  John, 
a  dark  tough  man,  of  the  toughness  of  leather,  spake  with 
irrefragable  law-eloquence,  law-logic,  for  three  days  run- 
ning, on  Mr.  Hampden's  side ;  and  learned  Mr.  Holborn 
for  three  other  days ;  —  preserved  yet  by  Rushworth  in 
acres  of  typography,  unreadable  now  to  all  mortals.  For 
other  learned  gentlemen,  tough  as  leather,  spoke  on  the 
opposite  side ;  and  learned  judges  animadverted,  at  endless 
length,  amid  the  expectancy  of  men.  With  brief  pauses, 
the  Trial  lasted  for  three  weeks  and  three  days.  Mr. 
Hampden  became  the  most  famous  man  in  England,  —  by 
accident  partly.  The  sentence  was  not  delivered  till  April, 
1638  ;  and  then  it  went  against  Mr.  Hampden:  judgment 
in  Exchequer  ran  to  this  effect,  "  Comideratum  est  per  eos- 
dem  Barones  quod  prcedictus  Johannes  Hampden  de  iisdem 
viginti  solidis  oneretur"  —  He  must  pay  the  Twenty  shil- 
lings,—  "et  inde  satisfaciat"  No  hope  in  Law-Courts, 
then ;  Petition  of  Right  and  Tallagio  non  concedendo 
have  become  an  old  song. 


CROMWELL.  29 


BATTLE    OF   NASEBY. 

THE  old  Hamlet  of  Naseby  stands  yet,  on  its  old  hill-top, 
very  much  as  it  did  in  Saxon  days,  on  the  Northwestern 
border  of  Northamptonshire,  some  seven  or  eight  miles 
from  Market-Harborough  in  Leicestershire,  nearly  on  a 
line,  and  nearly  midway,  between  that  Town  and  Daventry. 
A  peaceable  old  Hamlet,  of  some  eight  hundred  souls  ;  clay 
cottages  for  laborers,  but  neatly  thatched  and  swept ; 
smith's  shop,  saddler's  shop,  beer  shop,  all  in  order ;  form- 
ing a  kind  of  square,  which  leads  off  Southwards  into  two 
long  streets :  the  old  Church,  with  its  graves,  stands  in  the 
centre,  the  truncated  spire  finishing  itself  with  a  strange  old 
Ball,  held  up  by  rods  ;  a  "  hollow  copper  Ball,  which  came 
from  Boulogne  in  Henry  the  Eighth's  time,"  —  which  has, 
like  Hudibras's  breeches,  "been  at  the  Siege  of  Bullen." 
The  ground  is  upland,  moorland,  though  now  growing  corn ; 
was  not  enclosed  till  the  last  generation,  and  is  still  some- 
what bare  of  wood.  It  stands  nearly  in  the  heart  of  Eng- 
land :  gentle  Dulness,  taking  a  turn  at  etymology,  some- 
times derives  it  from  Navel ;  "  Navesby,  quasi  Navelsby, 
from  being,"  &c. :  Avon  "Well,  the  distinct  source  of 
Shakespeare's  Avon,  is  on  the  Western  slope  of  the  high 
grounds ;  Nen  and  Welland,  streams  leading  towards  Crom- 
well's Fen-country,  begin  to  gather  themselves  from  boggy 
places  on  the  Eastern  side.  The  grounds,  as  we  say,  lie 
high ;  and  are  still,  in  their  new  subdivisions,  known  by 
the  name  of  «  Hills,"  "  Rutput  Hill,"  "  Mill  Hill,"  "  Dust 
Hill,"  and  the  like,  precisely  as  in  Rushworth's  time :  but 
they  are  not  properly  hills  at  all;  they  are  broad  blunt 
clayey  masses,  swelling  towards  and  from  each  other,  like 
indolent  waves  of  a  sea,  sometimes  of  miles  in  extent. 

It  was  on  this  high  moor-ground,  in  the  centre  of  Eng- 
land, that  King  Charles,  on  the  14th  of  June,  1645,  fought 


30  THOMAS    CARLYLE. 

his  last  Battle ;  dashed  fiercely  against  the  New-Model 
Army,  which  he  had  despised  till  then ;  and  saw  himself 
shivered  utterly  to  ruin  thereby.  "  Prince  Rupert,  on  the 
King's  right  wing,  charged  up  the  hill,  and  carried  all  be- 
fore him ; "  but  Lieutenant-General  Cromwell  charged  down 
hill  on  the  other  wing,  likewise  carrying  all  before  him,  — 
and  did  not  gallop  off  the  field  to  plunder.  He,  Cromwell, 
ordered  thither  by  the  Parliament,  had  arrived  from  the 
Association  two  days  before,  "  amid  shouts  from  the  whole 
Army : "  he  had  the  ordering  of  the  Horse  this  morning. 
Prince  Rupert,  on  returning  from  his  plunder,  finds  the 
King's  Infantry  a  ruin  ;  prepares  to  charge  again  with  the 
rallied  Cavalry ;  but  the  Cavalry,  too,  when  it  came  to  the 
point,  "  broke  all  asunder,"  never  to  reassemble  more.  The 
chase  went  through  Harborough,  where  the  King  had  al- 
ready been  that  morning,  when  in  an  evil  hour  he  turned 
back,  to  revenge  some  "surprise  of  an  outpost  at  Naseby 
the  night  before,"  and  give  the  Roundheads  battle. 

Ample  details  of  this  Battle,  and  of  the  movements  prior 
and  posterior  to  it,  are  to  be  found  in  Sprigge,  or  copied 
with  some  abridgment  into  Rushworth  ;  who  has  also  copied 
a  strange  old  Plan  of  the  Battle ;  half-plan,  half-picture, 
which  the  Sale-Catalogues  are  very  chary  of,  in  the  case  of 
Sprigge.  By  assiduous  attention,  aided  by  this  Plan,  as  the 
old  names  yet  stick  to  their  localities,  the  narrative  can  still 
be,  and  has  lately  been,  pretty  accurately  verified,  and  the 
Figure  of  the  old  Battle  dimly  brought  back  again.  The 
reader  shall  imagine  it,  for  the  present.  On  the  crown  of 
Naseby  Height  stands  a  modern  Battle-monument ;  but,  by 
an  unlucky  oversight,  it  is  above  a  mile  to  the  east  of  where 
the  Battle  really  was.  There  are,  likewise,  two  modern 
Books  about  Naseby  and  its  Battle,  both  of  them  without 
value. 

The  Parliamentary '  Army  stood  ranged  on  the  height 
still  partly  called  "  Mill  Hill,"  as,  in  Rushworth's  time,  a 


CROMWELL.  31 

mile  and  half  from  Naseby  ;  the  King's  Army,  on  a  parallel 
"  Hill,"  its  back  to  Harborough,  with  the  wide  table  of  up- 
land now  named  Broad  Moor  between  them,  where  indeed 
the  main  brunt  of  the  action  still  clearly  enough  shows  it- 
self to  have  been.  There  are  hollow  spots,  of  a  rank  vegeta- 
tion, scattered  over  that  Broad  Moor,  which  are  understood 
to  have  once  been  burial  mounds,  some  of  which,  one  to  my 
knowledge,  have  been,  with  more  or  less  of  sacrilege,  veri- 
fied as  such.  A  friend  of  mine  has  in  his  cabinet  two  an- 
cient grinder-teeth,  dug  lately  from  that  ground,  and  waits 
for  an  opportunity  to  rebury  them  there.  —  Sound,  effectual 
grinders,  one  of  them  very  large  ;  which  ate  their  breakfast 
on  the  fourteenth  morning  of  June,  two  hundred  years  ago, 
and,  except  to  be  clinched  once  in  grim  battle,  had  never 
work  to  do  more  in  this  world !  "  A  stack  of  dead  bodies, 
perhaps  about  a  hundred,  had  been  buried  in  this  Trench, 
piled,  as  in  a  wall,  a  man's  length  thick ;  the  skeletons  lay 
in  courses,  the  heads  of  one  course  to  the  heels  of  the  next ; 
one  figure,  by  the  strange  position  of  the  bones,  gave  us  the 
hideous  notion  of  its  having  been  thrown  in  before  death. 
We  did  not  proceed  far  ;  —  perhaps  some  half-dozen  skele- 
tons. The  bones  were  treated  with  all  piety,  watched  rig- 
orously over  Sunday,  till  they  could  be  covered  in  again." 
Sweet  friends,  for  Jesus'  sake  forbear ! 

At  this  Battle,  Mr.  John  Rushworth,  our  Historical  Rush- 
worth,  had,  unexpectedly,  for  some  instants,  sight  of  a  very 
famous  person.  Mr.  John  is  Secretary  to  Fairfax,  and  they 
have  placed  him  to-day  among  the  Baggage-wagons,  near 
Naseby  Hamlet,  above  a  mile  from  the  fighting,  where  he 
waits  in  an  anxious  manner.  It  is  known  how  Prince  Ru- 
pert broke  our  left  wing  while  Cromwell  was  breaking  their 
left.  "  A  gentleman  of  public  employment,  in  the  late  ser- 
vice near  Naseby,"  writes  next  day,  "Harborough,  15th 
Jane,  2  in  the  morning,"  a  rough  graphic  Letter  in  the 
Newspapers,  wherein  is  this  sentence :  — 


32  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

#  #  #  «  A  party  of  theirs  that  broke  through  the  left 
wing  of  horse,  came  quite  behind  the  rear  to  our  Train,  the 
Leader  of  them  being  a  person  somewhat  in  habit  like  the 
General,  in  a  red  montero,  as  the  General  had.  He  came 
as  a  friend  ;  our  commander  of  the  guard  of  the  Train  went 
with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and  asked  him,  How  the  day 
went  ?  thinking  it  had  been  the  General :  the  Cavalier,  who 
we  since  heard  was  Rupert,  asked  him  and  the  rest,  If  they 
would  have  quarter  ?  They  cried  No ;  gave  fire,  and  in- 
stantly beat  them  off.  It  was  a  happy  deliverance,"  — 
without  doubt. 

There  were  taken  here  a  good  few  "  ladies  of  quality  in 
carriages,"  —  and  above  a  hundred  Irish  ladies  not  of  quali- 
ty, tattery  camp-followers,  "  with  long  skean-knives  about  a 
foot  in  length,"  which  they  well  knew  how  to  use,  upon 
whom,  I  fear,  the  Ordinance  against  Papists  pressed  hard 
this  day.  The  King's  Carriage  was  also  taken,  with  a  Cab- 
inet and  many  Royal  Autographs  in  it,  which,  when  printed, 
made  a  sad  impression  against  his  Majesty,  —  gave,  in  fact, 
a  most  melancholy  view  of  the  veracity  of  his  Majesty. 
"  On  the  word  of  a  King,"  all  was  lost ! 


BRIDGET    CROMWELL'S    WEDDING 

AND  now,  dated  on  the  Monday  before,  at  Holton,  a 
country  Parish  in  those  parts,  there  is  this  still  legible  in 
the  old  Church  Register,  —  intimately  interesting  to  some 
friends  of  ours  !  «  HENRY  IRETON,  Commissary- Gen- 
eral to  Sir  Thomas  Fairfax,  and  BRIDGET,  Daughter  to 
Oliver  Cromwell,  Lieutenant-General  of  the  Horse,  to  the 
said  Sir  Thomas  Fairfax,  were  married,  by  Mr.  Dell,  in  the 
Lady  Whorwood  her  house  in  Holton,  June  15th,  1646. — 
ALBAN  EALES,  Rector." 


CROMWELL.  33 

Ireton,  we  are  to  remark,  was  one  of  Fairfax's  Com- 
missioners on  the  Treaty  for  surrendering  Oxford,  and 
busy  under  the  walls  there  at  present.  Holton  is  some  five 
miles  east  of  the  City ;  Holton  House,  we  guess,  by  various 
indications,  to  have  been  Fairfax's  own  quarter.  Dell,  al- 
ready and  afterwards  well  known,  was  the  General's  Chap- 
lain at  this  date.  Of  "  the  Lady  Whorwood  "  I  have  traces, 
rather  in  the  Royalist  direction  ;  her  strong  moated  House, 
very  useful  to  Fairfax  in  those  weeks,  still  stands  conspicu- 
ous in  that  region,  though  now  under  new  figure  and  owner- 
ship ;  drawbridge  become  fixed,  deep  ditch  now  dry,  moated 
island  changed  into  a  flower-garden;  —  "rebuilt  in  1807." 
Fairfax's  lines,  we  observe,  extended  "from  Headington 
Hill  to  Marston,"  several  miles  in  advance  of  Holton 
House,  then  "  from  Marston,"  across  the  Cherwell,  and 
over  from  that  to  the  Isis  on  the  North  side  of  the  City  " ; 
southward,  and  elsewhere,  the  besieged,  "  by  a  dam  at  St. 
Clement's  Bridge,  had  laid  the  country  all  under  water  "  : 
in  such  scenes,  with  the  treaty  just  ending,  and  general 
peace  like  to  follow,  did  Ireton  welcome  his  bride,  —  a 
brave  young  damsel  of  twenty-one,  escorted,  doubtless,  by 
her  Father,  among  others,  to  the  Lord  General's  house, 
and  there,  by  Rev.  Mr.  Dell,  solemnly  handed  over  to 
new  destinies ! 


DEATH  WARRANT. 

THE  Trial  of  Charles  Stuart  falls  not  to  be  described  in 
this  place :  the  deep  meanings  that  lie  in  it  cannot  be  so 
much  as  glanced  at  here.  Oliver  Cromwell  attends  in  the 
High  Court  of  Justice  at  every  session  except  one ;  Fairfax 
sits  only  in  the  first.  Ludlow,  Whalley,  Walton,  names 
known  to  us,  are  also  constant  attendants  in  that  High 
Court,  during  that  long -memorable  Month  of  January,  1 649. 
2*  c 


34  THOMAS   CAELYLJL 

The  King  is  thrice  brought  to  the  Bar ;  refuses  to  plead, 
comports  himself  with  royal  dignity,  with  royal  haughti- 
ness, strong  in  his  divine  right ;  "  smiles  "  contemptuously, 
"  looks  with  an  austere  countenance ; "  does  not  seem,  till 
the  very  last,  to  have  fairly  believed  that  they  would  dare 
to  sentence  him.  But  they  were  men  sufficiently  provided 
with  daring ;  men,  we  are  bound  to  see,  who  sat  there  as  in 
the  Presence  of  the  Maker  of  all  men,  as  executing  the  judg- 
ments of  Heaven  above,  and  had  not  the  fear  of  any  man  or 
thing  on  the  Earth  below.  Bradshaw  said  to  the  King, 
"  Sir,  you  are  not  permitted  to  issue  out  in  these  discours- 
ings.  This  Court  is  satisfied  of  its  authority.  No  Court  will 
bear  to  hear  its  authority  questioned  in  that  manner."  — 
"  Clerk,  read  the  Sentence !  " 

And  so,  under  date,  Monday  29th  January,  1648-9,  there 
is  this  stern  Document  to  be  introduced ;  not  specifically  of 
Oliver's  composition  ;  but  expressing  in  every  letter  of  it 
the  conviction  of  Oliver's  heart,  in  this,  one  of  his  most  im- 
portant appearances  on  the  stage  of  earthly  life. 

To  Colonel  Francis  Hacker,   Colonel  HuncTcs,  and  Lieuten- 
ant- Colonel  Phayr,  and  to  every  one  of  them. 

At  the  High  Court  of  Justice  for  the  Trying  and  Judging  of 
Charles  Stuart,  King  of  England,  29th  January,  1648. 

WHEREAS  Charles  Stuart,  King  of  England,  is  and 
standeth  convicted,  attainted  and  condemned  of  High  Trea- 
son and  other  high  Crimes ;  and  Sentence  upon  Saturday 
last  was  pronounced  against  him  by  this  Court,  To  be  put  to 
death  by  the  severing  of  his  head  from  his  body;  of  which 
Sentence  execution  yet  remaineth  to  be  done  : 

These  are  therefore  to  will  and  require  you  to  see  the 
said  Sentence  executed,  in  the  open  street  before  Whitehall, 
upon  the  morrow,  being  the  Thirtieth  day  of  this  instant 
month  of  January,  between  the  hours  of  Ten  in  the  morn- 


.    CROMWELL.  35 

ing  and  Five  in  the  afternoon,  with  full  effect.     And  for  so 
doing,  this  shall  be  your  warrant. 

And  these  are  to  require  all  Officers  and  Soldiers,  and 
others  the  good  People  of  this  Nation  of  England,  to  be 
assisting  unto  you  in  this  service. 

Given  under  our  hands  and  seals. 
JOHN  BRADSHAW, 
THOMAS   GREY,  "  Lord  Groby," 
OLIVER  CROMWELL. 

("And  Fifty-six  others.") 

"  Tetrte  befluee,  ac  molossis  suis  ferociores.  Hideous  mon- 
sters, more  ferocious  than  their  own  mastiffs  !  "  shrieks  Sau- 
maise  ;  shrieks  all  the  world,  in  unmelodious  soul-confusing 
diapason  of  distraction,  —  happily  at  length  grown  very 
faint  in  our  day.  The  truth  is,  no  modern  reader  can  con- 
ceive the  then  atrocity,  ferocity,  unspeakability  of  this  fact. 
First,  after  long  reading  in  the  old  dead  Pamphlets  does 
one  see  the  magnitude  of  it.  To  be  equalled,  nay  to  be  pre- 
ferred think  some,  in  point  of  horror,  to  "  the  Crucifixion  of 
Christ."  Alas,  in  these  irreverent  times  of  ours,  if  all  the 
Kings  of  Europe  were  cut  in  pieces  at  one  swoop,  and  flung 
in  heaps  in  St.  Margaret's  Churchyard  on  the  same  day,  the 
emotion  would,  in  strict  arithmetical  truth,  be  small  in  com- 
parison !  We  know  it  not,  this  atrocity  of  the  English 
Regicides  ;  shall  never  know  it.  I  reckon  it  perhaps  the 
most  daring  action  any  Body  of  Men  to  be  met  with  in  His- 
tory ever,  with  clear  consciousness,  deliberately  set  them- 
selves to  do.  Dread  Phantoms,  glaring  supernal  on  you,  — 
when  once  they  are  quelled  and  their  light  snuffed  out, 
none  knows  the  terror  of  the  Phantom  !  The  Phantom  is  a 
poor  paper-lantern  with  a  candle-end  in  it,  which  any  whip- 
ster dare  now  beard. 

A  certain  Queen  in  some  South-Sea  Island,  I  have  read 
in  Missionary  Books,  had  been  converted  to  Christianity 


36  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

did  not  any  longer  believe  in  the  old  gods.  She  assembled 
her  people ;  said  to  them,  "  My  faithful  People,  the  gods  do 
not  dwell  in  that  burning  mountain  in  the  centre  of  our  Isle. 
That  is  not  God  ;  no,  that  is  a  common  burning-moun- 
tain,—  mere  culinary  fire  burning  under  peculiar  circum- 
stances. See,  I  will  walk  before  you  to  that  burning- 
mountain  ;  will  empty  my  wash-bowl  into  it,  cast  my  slipper 
over  it,  defy  it  to  the  uttermost;  and  stand  the  conse- 
quences ! "  She  walked  accordingly,  this  South-Sea  Hero- 
ine, nerved  to  the  sticking-place  ;  her  people  following  in 
pale  horror  and  expectancy:  she  did  her  experiment;  — 
and,  I  am  told,  they  have  truer  notions  of  the  gods  in  that 
Island  ever  since  !  Experiment  which  it  is  now  very  easy 
to  repeat,  and  very  needless.  Honor  to  the  Brave  who  de- 
liver us  from  Phantom-dynasties,  in  South-Sea  Islands  and 
in  North ! 

This  action  of  the  English  Regicides  did  in  effect  strike  a 
damp  like  death  through  the  heart  of  Flunkeyism  univer- 
sally in  this  world.  "Whereof  Flunkeyism,  Cant,  Cloth-wor- 
ship, or  whatever  ugly  name  it  have,  has  gone  about  incura- 
bly sick  ever  since  ;  and  is  now  at  length,  in  these  genera- 
tions, very  rapidly  dying.  The  like  of  which  action  will  not 
be  needed  for  a  thousand  years  again.  Needed,  alas  —  not 
till  a  new  genuine  Hero-worship  has  arisen,  has  perfected 
itself;  and  had  time  to  generate  into  a  Flunkeyism  and 
Cloth-worship  again !  Which  I  take  to  be  a  very  long  date 
indeed. 


MR.    MILTON 

ON  which  same  evening,  [March  13,  1468,]  furthermore, 
one  discerns  in  a  faint  but  an  authentic  manner,  certain  dim 
gentlemen  of  the  highest  authority,  young  Sir  Harry  Vane 
to  appearance  one  of  them,  repairing  to  the  lodging  of  one 


CROMWELL.  37 

Mr.  Milton,  "  a  small  house  in  Holborn,  which  opens  back- 
wards into  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields ;  to  put  an  official  question 
to  him  there."  Not  a  doubt  of  it  they  saw  Mr.  John  this 
evening.  In  the  official  Book  this  yet  stands  legible  : 

«  Die  Martis,  13°  Martii,  1648."  "  That  it  is  referred  to 
the  same  Committee,"  Whitlocke,  Vane,  Lord  Lisle,  Earl 
of  Denbigh,  Harry  Marten,  Mr.  Lisle,  "  or  any  two  of  them, 
to  speak  with  Mr.  Milton,  to  know,  Whether  he  will  be  em- 
ployed as  Secretary  for  the  Foreign  Languages  ?  and  to  re- 
port to  the  Council."  I  have  authority  to  say  that  Mr. 
Milton,  thus  unexpectedly  applied  to,  consents  ;  is  formally 
appointed  on  Thursday  next ;  makes  his  proof-shot,  "  to  the 
Senate  of  Hamburgh,"  about  a  week  hence ;  —  and  gives, 
and  continues  to  give,  great  satisfaction  to  that  Council,  to 
me,  and  to  the  whole  Nation  now,  and  to  all  Nations ! 
Such  romance  lies  in  the  State-Paper  Office. 


THE  LEVELLERS  — ENGLISH  SANSCULOTTISM. 

WHILE  Miss  Dorothy  Mayor  is  choosing  her  wedding- 
dresses,  and  Richard  Cromwell  is  looking  forward  to  a  life 
of  Arcadian  felicity  now  near  at  hand,  there  has  turned  up 
for  Richard's  Father  and  other  parties  interested,  on  the 
public  side  of  things,  a  matter  of  very  different  complexion, 
requiring  to  be  instantly  dealt  with  in  the  interim.  The 
matter  of  the  class  called  Levellers  ;  concerning  which  we 
must  now  say  a  few  words. 

In  1 647  there  were  Army  Adjutators ;  and  among  some 
of  them  wild  notions  afloat,  as  to  the  swift  attainability  of 
Perfect  Freedom,  civil  and  religious,  and  a  practical  Mil- 
lennium on  this  Earth  ;  notions  which  required,  in  the  Ren- 
dezvous at  Corkbushfield,  "  Rendezvous  of  Ware,"  as  they 
oftenest  call  it,  to  be  very  resolutely  trodden  out.  Eleven 


38  THOMAS    CAELYLE. 

chief  mutineers  were  ordered  from  the  ranks  in  that  Ren- 
dezvous ;  were  condemned  by  swift  Court-Martial  to  die ; 
and  Trooper  Arnald,  one  of  them,  was  accordingly  shot 
there  and  then;  which  extinguished  the  mutiny  for  that 
time.  War  since,  and  Justice  on  Delinquents,  England 
made  a  Free  Commonwealth,  and  such  like,  have  kept  the 
Army  busy;  but  a  deep  republican  leaven,  working  all 
along  among  these  men,  breaks  now  again  into  very  for- 
midable development.  As  the  following  brief  glimpses  and 
excerpts  may  satisfy  an  attentive  reader  who  will  spread 
them  out,  to  the  due  expansion,  in  his  mind.  Take  first 
this  glimpse  into  the  civil  province;  and  discern  with 
amazement,  a  whole  submarine  world  of  Calvinistic  Sanscu- 
lottism,  Five-point  Charter,  and  the  Rights  of  Man,  threat- 
ening to  emerge  almost  two  centuries  before  its  time. 

"The  Council  of  State,"  says  Whitlocke,  just  while 
Mr.  Barton  is  boggling  about  the  Hursley  Marriage-settle- 
ments, "  has  intelligence  of  certain  Levellers  appearing  at  St. 
Margaret's  Hill,  near  Cobham  in  Surrey,  and  at  St.  George's 
Hill,"  in  the  same  quarter:  "that  they  were  digging  the 
ground,  and  sowing  it  with  roots  and  beans.  One  Everard, 
once  of  the  Army,  who  terms  himself  a  Prophet,  is  the 
chief  of  them : "  one  Winstanley  is  another  chief.  They 
were  Thirty  men,  and  said  that  they  should  be  shortly  Four- 
thousand.  They  invited  all  to  come  in  and  help  them ;  and 
promised  them  meat,  drink,  and  clothes.  They  threatened 
to  pull  down  Park-pales,  and  to  lay  all  open ;  and  threaten 
the  neighbors  that  they  will  shortly  make  them  all  come  up 
to  the  hills  and  work."  These  infatuated  persons,  begin- 
ning a  new  era  in  this  headlong  manner  on  the  chalk  hills 
of  Surrey,  are  laid  hold  of  by  certain  Justices,  "  by  the  coun- 
try people,"  and  also  by  "  two  troops  of  horse  ;  "  and  com- 
plain loudly  of  such  treatment ;  appealing  to  all  men 
whether  it  be  fair.  This  is  the  account  they  give  of  them- 
selves when  brought  before  the  General  some  days  after- 
wards: 


CROMWELL.  39 

"  April  20th,  1649.  Everard  and  Winstanley,  the  chief 
of  those  that  digged  at  St.  George's  Hill  in  Surrey,  came  to 
the  General  and  made  a  large  declaration,  to  justify  their 
proceedings.  Everard  said,  He  was  of  the  race  of  the 
Jews,"  as  most  men  called  Saxon,  and  other,  prop  erly  are  ; 
"  That  all  the  Liberties  of  the  People  were  lost  by  the  com- 
ing in  of  William  the  Conquerer ;  and  that,  ever  since,  the 
People  of  God  had  lived  under  tyranny  and  oppression 
worse  than  that  of  our  Forefathers  under  the  Egyptians. 
But  now  the  time  of  deliverance  was  at  hand ;  and  God 
would  bring  His  People  out  of  this  slavery,  and  restore 
them  to  their  freedom  in  enjoying  the  fruits  and  benefits  of 
the  Earth.  And  that  there  had  lately  appeared  to  him, 
Everard,  a  vision ;  which  bade  him,  Arise  and  dig  and 
plough  the  Earth,  and  receive  the  fruits  thereof.  That 
their  intent  is  to  restore  the  Creation  to  its  former  condi- 
tion. That  as  God  had  promised  to  make  the  barren  land 
fruitful,  so  now  what  they  did,  was  to  restore  the  ancient 
Community  of  enjoying  the  Fruits  of  the  Earth,  and  to  dis- 
tribute the  benefit  thereof  to  the  poor  and  needy,  and  to  feed 
the  hungry  and  clothe  the  naked.  That  they  intend  not 
to  meddle  with  any  man's  property,  nor  to  break  down  any 
pales  or  enclosures,"  in  spite  of  reports  to  the  contrary ; 
"  but  only  to  meddle  with  what  is  common  and  untilled,  and 
to  make  it  fruitful  for  the  use  of  man.  That  the  time  will 
suddenly  be,  when  all  men  shall  willingly  come  in  and  give 
up  their  lauds  and  estates,  and  submit  to  this  Community  of 
Goods." 

These  are  the  principles  of  Everard,  Winstanley,  and  the 
poor  Brotherhood,  seemingly  Saxon,  but  properly  of  the 
race  of  the  Jews,  who  were  found  dibbling  beans  on  St. 
George's  Hill,  under  the  clear  April  skies  in  1649,  and 
hastily  bringing  in  a  new  era  in  that  manner.  "  And  for 
all  such  as  will  come  in  and  work  with  them,  they  shall 
have  meat,  drink,  and  clothes,  which  is  all  that  is  necessary 


40  THOMAS    CAELYLE. 

to  the  life  of  man  :  and  as  for  money,  there  is  not  any  need 
of  it ;  nor  of  clothes  more  than  to  cover  nakedness."  For 
the  rest,  "That  they  will  not  defend  themselves  by  arms, 
but  will  submit  unto  authority,  and  wait  till  the  promised 
opportunity  be  offered,  which  they  conceive  to  be  at  hand. 
And  that  as  their  forefathers  lived  in  tents,  so  it  would  be 
suitable  to  their  condition,  now  to  live  in  the  same. 

"  While  they  were  before  the  General,  they  stood  with 
their  hats  on ;  and  being  demanded  the  reason  thereof,  they 
said,  Because  he  was  but  their  fellow-creature.  Being 
asked  the  meaning  of  that  phrase,  Give  honor  to  whom  hon- 
or is  due,  —  they  said,  Your  mouths  shall  be  stopped  that 
ask  such  a  question." 

Dull  Bulstrode  hath  "  set  down  this  the  more  largely  be- 
cause it  was  the  beginning  of  the  appearance  "  of  an  exten- 
sive levelling  doctrine,  much  to  be  "avoided"  by  judicious 
persons,  seeing  it  is  "a  weak  persuasion."  The  germ  of 
Quakerism,  and  much  else,  is  curiously  visible  here.  But 
let  us  look  now  at  the  military  phasis  of  the  matter  ;  where 
"a  weak  persuasion,"  mounted  on  cavalry  horses,  with 
sabres  and  fire-arms  in  its  hand,  may  become  a  very  peril- 
ous one. 

Friday,  20th  April,  1649.  The  Lieutenant-General  has 
consented  to  go  to  Ireland ;  the  City  also  will  lend  money  ; 
and  now  this  Friday  the  Council  of  the  Army  meets  at 
Whitehall  to  decide  what  regiments  shall  go  on  that  ser- 
vice. "After  a  solemn  seeking  of  God  by  prayer,"  they 
agree  that  it  shall  be  by  lot :  tickets  are  put  into  a  hat,  a 
child  draws  them :  the  regiments,  fourteen  of  foot  and  four- 
teen of  horse,  are  decided  on  in  this  manner.  "  The  offi- 
cers on  whom  the  lot  fell,  in  all  the  twenty-eight  regiments, 
expressed  much  cheerfulness  at  the  decision."  The  officers 
did :  —  but  the  common  men  are  by  no  means  all  of  that 
humor.  The  common  men,  blown  upon  by  Lilburn,  and 
his  five  small  Beagles,  have  notions  about  Engand's  new 


CROMWELL.  41 

Chains,  about  the  Hunting  of  Foxes  from  Triploe  Heath, 
and  in  fact  ideas  concerning  the  capability  that  lies  in  man, 
and  in  a  free  Commonwealth,  which  are  of  the  most  alarm- 
ing description. 

Thursday,  26th  April.  This  night  at  the  BuU  in  Bish- 
opsgate  there  has  an  alarming  mutiny  broken  out  in  a 
troop  of  Whalley's  regiment  there.  Whalley's  men  are  not 
allotted  for  Ireland :  but  they  refuse  to  quit  London,  as  they 
are  ordered ;  they  want  this  and  that  first ;  they  seize  their 
colors  from  the  Cornet,  who  is  lodged  at  the  Bull  there :  — 
the  General  and  the  Lieutenant- General  have  to  hasten 
thither ;  quell  them,  pack  them  forth  on  their  march ;  seiz- 
ing fifteen  of  them  first,  to  be  tried  by  Court-Martial. 
Tried  by  instant  Court-Martial,  five  of  them  are  found 
guilty,  doomed  to  die,  but  pardoned ;  and  one  of  them, 
Trooper  Lockyer,  is  doomed  and  not  pardoned.  Trooper 
Lockyer  is  shot,  in  Paul's  Churchyard,  on  the  morrow.  A 
very  brave  young  man,  they  say ;  though  but  three-and- 
twenty,  "  he  has  served  seven  years  in  these  Wars,"  ever 
since  the  Wars  began.  "  Religious,"  too,  "  of  excellent 
parts  and  much  beloved;"  —  but  with  hot  notions  as  to 
human  Freedom,  and  the  rate  at  which  the  millenniums 
are  attainable,  poor  Lockyer!  He  falls  shot  in  Paul's 
Churchyard  on  Friday,  amid  the  tears  of  men  and  women. 
Paul's  Cathedral,  we  remark,  is  now  a  Horseguard ;  horses 
stamp  in  the  Canons'  stalls  there :  and  Paul's  Cross  itself, 
as  smacking  of  Popery,  where  in  fact  Alablaster  once 
preached  flat  Popery,  is  swept  altogether  away,  and  its 
leaden  roof  melted  into  bullets,  or  mixed  with  tin  for 
culinary  pewter.  Lockyer's  corpse  is  watched  and  wept 
over,  not  without  prayer,  in  the  eastern  regions  of  the  City, 
till  a  new  week  come ;  and  on  Monday,  this  is  what  we  see 
advancing  westward  by  way  of  funeral  to  him. 

"  About  one  hundred  went  before  the  Corpse,  five  or  six 
in  a  file ;  the  Corpse  was  then  brought,  with  six  trumpets 


42  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

sounding  a  soldier's  knell ;  then  the  Trooper's  Horse  came, 
clothed  all  over  in  mourning,  and  led  by  a  footman.  The 
Corpse  was  adorned  with  bundles  of  Rosemary,  one  half 
stained  in  blood ;  and  the  Sword  of  the  deceased  along  with 
them.  Some  thousands  followed  in  rank  and  file :  all  had 
sea-green-and-black  ribbons  tied  on  their  hats,  and  to  their 
breasts :  and  the  women  brought  up  the  rear.  At  the  new 
Churchyard  in  "Westminster,  some  thousands  more  of  the 
better  sort  met  them,  who  thought  not  fit  to  march  through 
the  City.  Many  looked  upon  this  funeral  as  an  affront  to 
the  Parliament  and  Army ;  others  called  these  people  '  Lev- 
ellers ; '  but  they  took  no  notice  of  any  one's  sayings." 

That  was  the  end  of  Trooper  Lockyer  :  six  trumpets  wail- 
ing stern  music  through  London  streets ;  Rosemaries  and 
Sword  half-dipped  in  blood ;  funeral  of  many  thousands  in 
seagreen  Ribbons  and  black :  —  testimony  of  a  weak  per- 
suasion, now  looking  somewhat  perilous.  Lieutenant-Colo- 
nel Lilburn,  and  his  five  small  Beagles,  now  in  a  kind  of 
loose  arrest  under  the  Lieutenant  of  the  Tower,  make  haste 
to  profit  by  the  general  emotion ;  publish  on  the  1st  of  May 
their  "  Agreement  of  the  People,"  —  their  Bentham-Sieyes 
Constitution :  Annual  very  exquisite  Parliament,  and  other 
Lilburn  apparatus ;  whereby  the  Perfection  of  Human  Na- 
ture will  with  a  maximum  of  rapidity  be  secured,  and  a 
millennium  straightway  arrive,  sings  the  Lilburn  Oracle. 

May  9th.  Richard  Cromwell  is  safe  wedded  ;  Richard's 
Father  is  reviewing  troops  in  Hyde  Park,  "  seagreen  colors 
in  some  of  their  hats."  The  Lieutenant- General  speaks  ear- 
nestly to  them.  Has  not  the  Parliament  been  diligent,  do- 
ing its  best  ?  It  has  punished  Delinquents  ;  it  has  voted,  in 
these  very  days,  resolutions  for  dissolving  itself  and  assem- 
bling future  Parliaments.  It  has  protected  trade ;  got  a 
good  Navy  afloat.  You  soldiers,  there  is  exact  payment 
provided  for  you.  Martial  Law  ?  Death,  or  other  punish- 
ment of  mutineers  ?  Well !  Whoever  cannot  stand  Mar- 


CROMWELL.  43 

tial  Law  is  not  fit  to  be  a  soldier :  his  best  plan  will  be  to 
lay  down  his  arms ;  he  shall  have  his  ticket,  and  get  his  ar- 
rears as  we  others  do,  —  we  that  still  mean  to  fight  against 
the  enemies  of  England  and  this  Cause.  —  One  trooper 
showed  signs  of  insolence ;  the  Lieutenant-General  sup- 
pressed him  by  rigor  and  by  clemency :  the  seagreen  rib- 
bons were  torn  from  such  hats  as  had  them.  The  humor 
of  the  men  is  not  the  most  perfect.  This  Review  was  on 
Wednesday :  Lilburn  and  his  five  small  Beagles  are,  on 
Saturday,  committed  close  Prisoners  to  the  Tower,  each 
rigorously  to  a  cell  of  his  own. 

It  is  high  time.  For  now  the  flame  has  caught  the 
ranks  of  the  Army  itself,  in  Oxfordshire,  in  Gloucester- 
shire, at  Salisbury,  where  head-quarters  are ;  and  rapidly 
there  is,  on  all  hands,  a  dangerous  conflagration  blazing  out. 
In  Oxfordshire,  one  Captain  Thompson,  not  known  to  us 
before,  has  burst  from  his  quarters  at  Banbury,  with  a 
Party  of  Two-Hundred,  in  these  same  days ;  has  sent  forth 
his  England's  Standard  Advanced ;  insisting  passionately  on 
the  New  Chains  we  are  fettered  with  ;  indignantly  demand- 
ing swift  perfection  of  Human  Freedom,  justice  on  the 
murderers  of  Lockyer  and  Arnald ;  —  threatening  that  if  a 
hair  of  Lilburn  and  the  five  small  Beagles  be  hurt,  he  will 
avenge  it  "  seventy-and-seven  fold."  This  Thompson's  Par- 
ty, swiftly  attacked  by  his  Colonel,  is  broken  within  the 
week ;  he  himself  escapes  with  a  few,  and  still  roves  up  and 
down.  To  join  whom,  or  to  communicate  with  Gloucester- 
shire where  help  lies,  there  has,  in  the  interim,  open  mu- 
tiny, "  above  a  Thousand  strong,"  with  subalterns,  with  a 
Cornet  Thompson  brother  of  the  Captain,  but  without  any 
leader  of  mark,  broken  out  at  Salisbury :  the  General  and 
Lieutenant-General,  with  what  force  can  be  raised,  are 
hastening  thitherward  in  all  speed.  Now  were  the  time  for 
Lieutenant-Colonel  Lilburn ;  now  or  never  might  noisy 
John  do  some  considerable  injury  to  the  Cause  he  has  at 


44  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

heart :  but  he  sits,  in  these  critical  hours,  fast  within  stone 
walls  ! 

Monday,  \kth  May.  All  Sunday  the  General  and  Lieu- 
tenant-General marched  in  full  speed,  by  Alton,  by  Ando- 
ver,  towards  Salisbury ;  the  mutineers,  hearing  of  them, 
start  northward  for  Buckinghamshire,  then  for  Berkshire ; 
the  General  and  Lieutenant-General  turning  also  north- 
ward after  them  in  hot  chase.  The  mutineers  arrive  at 
Wantage ;  make  for  Oxfordshire  by  Newbridge ;  find  the 
Bridge  already  seized ;  cross  higher  up  by  swimming ;  get 
to  Burford,  very  weary,  and  "turn  out  their  horses  to 
grass  ;  Fairfax  and  Cromwell  still  following  in  hot  speed, 
a  march  of  near  fifty  miles  that  Monday.  What  boots 
it,  there  is  no  leader,  noisy  John  is  sitting  fast  within  stone 
walls !  The  mutineers  lie  asleep  in  Burford,  their  horses 
out  at  grass ;  the  Lieutenant-General,  having  rested  at  a 
safe  distance  since  dark,  bursts  into  Burford  as  the  clocks 
are  striking  midnight.  He  has  beset  some  hundreds  of  the 
mutineers,  "who  could  only  fire  some  shots  out  of  win- 
dows ; "  —  has  dissipated  the  mutiny,  trodden  down  the  Lev- 
elling Principle  out  of  English  affairs  once  more.  Here 
is  the  last  scene  of  the  business  ;  the  rigorous  Court-Martial 
having  now  sat ;  the  decimated  doomed  Mutineers  being 
placed  on  the  leads  of  the  Church  to  see. 

Thursday,  11  th  May.  — «  This  day  in  Burford  Church- 
yard, Cornet  Thompson,  brother  to  Thompson  the  chief 
leader,  was  brought  to  the  place  of  execution;  and  ex- 
pressed himself  to  this  purpose,  That  it  was  just  what  did 
befall  him ;  that  God  did  not  own  the  ways  he  went ;  that 
he  had  offended  the  General :  he  desired  the  prayers  of  the 
people ;  and  told  the  soldiers  who  were  appointed  to  shoot 
him,  that  when  he  held  out  his  hands,  they  should  do  their 
duty.  And  accordingly  he  was  immediately,  after  the  sign 
given,  shot  to  death.  Next  after  him  was  a  corporal, 
brought  to  the  same  place  of  execution;  where,  looking 


CROMWELL.  45 

upon  his  fellow-mutineers,  he  set  his  back  against  the  wall ; 
and  bade  them  who  were  appointed  to  shoot, '  Shoot ! '  and 
died  desperately.  The  third,  being  also  a  corporal,  was 
brought  to  the  same  place ;  and  without  the  least  acknow- 
ledgment of  error,  or  show  of  fear,  he  pulled  off  his  doub- 
let, standing  a  pretty  distance  from  the  wall ;  and  bade  the 
soldiers  do  their  duty;  looking  them  in  the  face  till  they 
gave  fire,  not  showing  the  least  kind  of  terror  or  fearful- 
ness  of  spirit."  So  die  the  Leveller  Corporals ;  strong  they, 
after  their  sort,  for  the  Liberties  of  England ;  resolute  to 
the  very  death.  Misguided  Corporals !  But  History,  which 
has  wept  for  a  misguided  Charles  Stuart,  and  blubbered,  in 
the  most  copious  helpless  manner,  near  two  centuries  now, 
whole  floods  of  brine,  enough  to  salt  the  Herring  fishery,  — 
will  not  refuse  these  poor  Corporals  also  her  tributary  sigh. 
With  Arnald  of  the  Rendezvous  at  Ware,  with  Lockyer  of 
the  Bull  in  Bishopsgate,  and  other  misguided  martyrs  to 
the  Liberties  of  England  then  and  since,  may  they  sleep 
well! 

Cornet  Dean  who  now  came  forward,  as  the  next  to  be 
shot,  expressed  penitence ;  got  pardon  from  the  General : 
and  there  was  no  more  shooting.  Lieu  tenant- General  Crom- 
well went  into  the  Church,  called  down  the  Decimated  of 
the  Mutineers ;  rebuked,  admonished ;  said,  the  General  in 
his  mercy  had  forgiven  them.  Misguided  men,  would  you 
ruin  this  Cause,  which  marvellous  Providences  have  so  con- 
firmed to  us  to  be  the  Cause  of  God?  Go,  repent,  and  re- 
bel no  more  lest  a  worse  thing  befall  you  !  "  They  wept," 
says  the  old  Newspaper  ;  they  retired  to  the  Devizes  for  a 
time ;  were  then  restored  to  their  regiments,  and  marched 
cheerfully  for  Ireland.  Captain  Thompson,  the  Cornet's 
brother,  the  first  of  all  the  Mutineers,  he  too,  a  few  days 
afterwards,  was  fallen  in  with  in  Northamptonshire,  still 
mutinous ;  his  men  took  quarter ;  he  himself  "  fled  to  a 
wood,"  fired  and  fenced  there,  and  again  desperately  fired. 


46  THOMAS    CARLYLE. 

declared  he  would  never  yield  alive ;  —  whereupon  "  a 
Corporal  with  seven  bullets  in  his  carbine "  ended  Captain 
Thompson  too ;  and  this  formidable  conflagration,  to  the 
last  glimmer  of  it,  was  extinct. 

Sansculottism,  as  AVC  said  above,  has  to  lie  submerged  for 
almost  two  centuries  yet.  Levelling,  in  the  practical  civil 
or  military  provinces  of  English  things,  is  forbidden  to  be. 
In  the  spiritual  provinces  it  cannot  be  forbidden ;  for  there 
it  everywhere  already  is.  It  ceases  dibbling  beans  on  St 
George's  Hill  near  Cobham ;  ceases  galloping  in  mutiny 
across  the  Isis  to  Burford ;  takes  into  Quakerisms,  and  king- 
doms which  are  not  of  this  world.  My  poor  friend  Dryas- 
dust lamentably  tears  his  hair  over  the  intolerance  of  that 
old  Time  to  Quakerism  and  such  like  ;  if  Dryasdust  had  seen 
the  dibbling  on  St.  George's  Hill,  the  threatened  fall  of 
"  Park-pales,"  and  the  gallop  to  Burford,  he  would  reflect 
that  conviction  in  an  earnest  age  means,  not  lengthy  Spout- 
ing in  Exeter-hall,  but  rapid  silent  Practice  on  the  face  of 
the  Earth ;  and  would  perhaps  leave  his  poor  hair  alone. 


SCOTCH   PURITANISM. 

THE  faults  or  misfortunes  of  the  Scotch  People,  in  their 
Puritan  business,  are  many ;  but,  properly  their  grand  fault 
is  this,  That  they  have  produced  for  it  no  sufficiently  heroic 
man  among  them.  No  man  that  has  an  eye  to  see  beyond 
the  letter  and  the  rubric ;  to  discern,  across  many  consecra- 
ted rubrics  of  the  Past,  the  inarticulate  divineness  too  of  the 
Present  and  the  Future,  and  dare  all  perils  in  the  faith  of 
that !  With  Oliver  Cromwell  born  a  Scotchman,  with  a 
Hero  King  and  a  unanimous  Hero  Nation  at  his  back,  it 
might  have  been  far  otherwise.  With  Oliver  born  Scotch, 
one  sees  not  but  the  whole  world  might  have  become  Puri- 


CROMWELL.  47 

tan ;  might  have  struggled,  yet  a  long  while,  to  fashion 
itself  according  to  that  divine  Hebrew  Gospel,  —  to  the  ex- 
clusion of  other  Gospels  not  Hebrew,  which  also  are  divine, 
and  will  have  their  share  of  fulfilment  here !  —  But  of  such 
issue  there  is  no  danger.  Instead  of  inspired  Olivers,  glow- 
ing with  direct  insight  and  noble  daring,  we  have  Argyles, 
Loudons,  and  narrow,  more  or  less  opaque  persons  of  the 
Pedant  species.  Committees  of  Estates,  Committees  of 
Kirks,  much  tied-up  in  formulas,  both  of  them  :  a  bigoted 
Theocracy  without  the  Inspiration ;  which  is  a  very  hopeless 
phenomenon  indeed.  The  Scotch  People  are  all  willing, 
eager  of  heart;  asking,  "Whitherward?  But  the  Leaders 
stand  aghast  at  the  new  forms  of  danger,  and  in  a  vehement 
discrepant  manner  some  calling,  Halt !  others  calling,  Back- 
ward !  others,  Forward !  —  huge  confusion  ensues.  Con- 
fusion which  will  need  an  Oliver  to  repress  it ;  to  bind  it  up 
in  tight  manacles,  if  not  otherwise ;  and  say,  "  There,  sit 
there  and  consider  thyself  a  little  ! " 

The  meaning  of  the  Scotch  Covenant  was,  That  God's 
divine  Law  of  the  Bible  should  be  put  in  practice  in  these 
Nations ;  verily  it,  and  not  the  Four  Surplices  at  Allliallow- 
tide,  or  any  Formula  of  cloth  or  sheepskin  here  or  else- 
where which  merely  pretended  to  be  it :  but  then  the  Cov- 
enant says  expressly,  there  is  to  be  a  Stuart  King  in  the 
business :  we  cannot  do  without  our  Stuart  King !  Given 
a  divine  Law  of  the  Bible  on  one  hand,  and  a  Stuart  King, 
Charles  First  or  Charles  Second,  on  the  other:  alas,  did 
History  ever  present  a  more  irreducible  case  of  equations  in 
this  world  ?  I  pity  the  poor  Scotch  Pedant  Governors,  still 
more  the  poor  Scotch  People,  who  had  no  other  to  follow ! 
Nay,  as  for  that,  the  People  did  get  through  in  the  end, 
such  was  their  indomitable  pious  constancy,  and  other  worth 
and  fortune :  and  Presbytery  became  a  Fact  among  them, 
to  the  whole  length  possible  for  it ;  not  without  endless  re- 
sults. But  for  the  poor  Governors  this  irreducible  case 


48  THOMAS   CAELYLE. 

proved,  as  it  were,  fatal !  They  have  never  since,  if  we 
will  look  narrowly  at  it,  governed  Scotland,  or  even  well 
known  that  they  were  there  to  attempt  governing  it.  Once 
they  lay  on  Dunse  Hill,  "  each  Earl  with  his  Regiment  of 
Tenants  round  him,"  For  Christ's  Grown  and  Covenant; 
and  never  since  had  they  any  noble  National  act,  which  it 
was  given  them  to  do.  Growing  desperate  of  Christ's 
Crown  and  Covenant,  they,  in  the  next  generation,  when 
our  Annus  Mirabilis  arrived,  hurried  up  to  Court,  looking 
out  for  other  Crowns  and  Covenants;  deserted  Scotland 
and  her  Cause,  somewhat  basely ;  took  to  booing  and  booing 
for  Causes  of  their  own,  unhappy  mortals ;  —  and  Scotland 
and  all  Causes  that  were  Scotland's  have  had  to  go  on  very 
much  without  them  ever  since ! 


THE    BATTLE    OF   DUNBAR. 

THE  small  Town  of  Dunbar.  stands,  high  and  windy,  look- 
ing down  over  its  herring-boats,  over  its  grim  old  Castle 
now  much  honeycombed,  —  on  one  of  those  projecting  rock 
promontories  with  which  that  shore  of  the  Frith  of  Forth  is 
niched  and  vandyked,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach.  A  beau- 
tiful sea ;  good  land  too,  now  that  the  plougher  understands  • 
his  trade  ;  a  grim  niched  barrier  of  whinstone  sheltering  it 
from  the  chafings  and  tumblings  of  the  big  blue  German 
Ocean.  Seaward,  St.  Abb's  Head,  of  whinstone,  bounds 
your  horizon  to  the  east,  not  very  far  off;  west,  close  by,  is 
the  deep  bay,  and  fishy  little  village  of  Belhaven :  the 
gloomy  Bass  and  other  rock-islets,  and  farther  the  Hills  of 
Fife,  and  foreshadows  of  the  Highlands,  are  visible  as  you 
look  seaward.  From  the  bottom  of  Belhaven  Bay  to  that 
of  the  next  sea-bight,  St.  Abb's  ward,  the  Town  and  its 
environs  form  a  peninsula.  Along  the  base  of  which  penin- 


CROMWELL.  49 

sula,  "  not  much  above  a  mile  and  a  half  from  sea  to  sea," 
Oliver  Cromwell's  Army,  on  Monday,  the  2d  of  Septem- 
ber, 1650,  stands  ranked,  with  its  tents  and  Town  behind 
it,  —  in  very  forlorn  circumstances.  This  now  is  all  the 
ground  that  Oliver  is  lord  of  in  Scotland.  His  Ships  lie  in 
the  offing,  with  biscuit  and  transport  for  him ;  but  visible 
elsewhere  in  the  Earth  no  help. 

Landward,  as  you  look  from  the  Town  of  Dunbar  there 
rises,  some  short  mile  off,  a  dusky  continent  of  barren  heath 
Hills ;  the  Lammermoor,  where  only  mountain-sheep  can 
be  at  home.  The  crossing  of  which,  by  any  of  its  boggy 
passes,  and  brawling  stream-courses,  no  Army,  hardly  a 
solitary  Scotch  Packman  could  attempt,  in  such  weather. 
To  the  edge  of  these  Lammermoor  Heights,  David  Lesley 
has  betaken  himself;  lies  now  along  the  outmost  spur  of 
them,  —  a  long  Hill  of  considerable  height,  which  the  Dun- 
bar  people  call  the  Dun,  Doon,  or  sometimes  for  fashion's 
sake  the  Down,  adding  to  it  the  Teutonic  hill  likewise, 
though  Dun  itself  in  old  Celtic  signifies  Hill.  On  this 
Doon  Hill  lies  David  Leslej,  with  the  victorious  Scotch 
Army,  upwards  of  Twenty  thousand  strong ;  with  the  Com- 
mittees of  Kirk  and  Estates,  the  chief  Dignitaries  of  the 
Country,  and  in  fact  the  flower  of  what  the  pure  Covenant 
in  this  the  Twelfth  year  of  its  existence  can  still  bring 
forth.  There  lies  he,  since  Sunday  night,  on  the  top  and 
slope  of  this  Doon  Hill,  with  the  impassable  heath  conti- 
nents behind  him :  embraces,  as  within  outspread  tiger- 
claws,  the  base-line  of  Oliver's  Dunbar  Peninsula ;  waiting 
what  Oliver  will  do.  Cockburnspath  with  its  ravines  has 
been  seized  on  Oliver's  left,  and  made  impassable ;  behind 
Oliver  is  the  sea ;  in  front  of  him  Lesley,  Doon  Hill,  and 
the  heath-continent  of  Lammermoor.  Lesley's  force  is  of 
Three-and-twenty  thousand,  in  spirits  as  of  men  chasing: 
Oliver's  about  half  as  many,  in  spirits  as  of  men  chased. 
What  is  to  become  of  Oliver  ?  .  .  .  . 

3  D 


50  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

The  base  of  Oliver's  Dunbar  Peninsula,  as  we  have 
called  it  (or  Dunbar  Pinfold,  where  he  is  now  hemmed  in, 
upon  "an  entanglement  very  difficult"),  extends  from  Bel- 
haven  Bay  on  his  right,  to  Brocksmouth  House  on  his  left ; 
"  about  a  mile  and  a  half  from  sea  to  sea : "  Brocksmouth 
House,  the  Earl  (now  Duke)  of  Roxburgh's  mansion, 
which  still  stands  there,  his  soldiers  now  occupy  as  their 
extreme  post  on  the  left.  As  its  name  iudicates,  it  is  the 
mouth  or  issue  of  a  small  Rivulet,  or  Burn  called  Brock, 
Brocksburn ;  which,  springing  from  the  Lammermoor,  and 
skirting  David  Lesley's  Doon  Hill,  finds  its  egress  here, 
into  the  sea.  The  reader  who  would  form  an  image  to 
himself  of  the  great  Tuesday,  3d  of  September,  1650,  at 
Dunbar,  must  note  well  this  little  Burn.  It  runs  in  a  deep 
grassy  glen,  which  the  South-country  Officers  in  those  old 
Pamphlets  describe  as  a  "deep  ditch,  forty  feet  in  depth, 
and  about  as  many  in  width,"  —  ditch  dug  out  by  the  little 
Brook  itself,  and  carpeted  with  greensward,  in  the  course  of 
long  thousands  of  years.  It  runs  pretty  close  by  the  foot  of 
Doon  Hill ;  forms,  from  this  point  to  the  sea,  the  boundary 
of  Oliver's  position :  his  force  is  arranged  in  battle-order 
along  the  left  bank  of  this  Brocksburn,  and  its  grassy  glen ; 
he  is  busied  all  Monday,  he  and  his  Officers,  in  ranking 
them  there.  "  Before  sunrise  on  Monday "  Lesley  sent 
down  his  horse  from  the  Hill-top,  to  occupy  the  other  side 
of  this  Brook;  "about  four  in  the  afternoon,"  his  train 
came  down,  his  whole  Army  gradually  came  down  ;  and 
they  now  are  ranking  themselves  on  the  opposite  side  of 
Brocksburn,  —  on  rather  narrow  ground;  cornfields,  but 
swiftly  sloping  upwards  to  the  steep  of  Doon  Hill.  This 
goes  on,  in  the  wild  showers  and  winds  of  Monday,  2nd 
September,  1650,  on  both  sides  of  the  Rivulet  of  Brock. 
Whoever  will  begin  the  attack,  must  get  across  this  Brook 
and  its  glen  first ;  a  thing  of  much  disadvantage. 

Behind  Oliver's  ranks,  between  him  and  Dunbar,  stand 


CROMWELL.  51 

his  tents ;  sprinkled  up  and  down,  by  battalions,  over  the 
face  of  this  "  Peninsula  " ;  which  is  a  low  though  very  un- 
even tract  of  ground  ;  now  in  our  time  all  yellow  with 
wheat  and  barley  in  the  autumn  season,  but  at  that  date 
only  partially  tilled,  —  describable  by  Yorkshire  Hodgson 
as  a  place  of  plashes  and  rough  bent-grass ;  terribly  beaten 
by  showery  winds  that  day,  so  that  your  tent  will  hardly 
stand.  There  was  then  but  one  Farm-house  on  this  tract, 
where  now  are  not  a  few :  thither  were  Oliver's  Cannon 
sent  this  morning ;  they  had  at  first  been  lodged  "  in  the 
Church,"  an  edifice  standing  then  as  now  somewhat  apart, 

at  the  south  end  of  Dunbar 

And  now  farther,  on  the  great  scale,  we  are  to  remark 
very  specially  that  there  is  just  one  other  "  pass  "  across  the 
Brocksburn ;  and  this  is  precisely  where  the  London  road 
now  crosses  it;  about  a  mile  east  from  the  former  pass, 
and  perhaps  two  gunshots  west  from  Brocksmouth  House. 
There  the  great  road  then  as  now  crosses  the  Burn  of 
Brock ;  the  steep  grassy  glen,  or  "  broad  ditch  forty  feet 
deep,"  flattening  itself  out  here  once  more  into  a  passable 
slope :  passable,  but  still  steep  on  the  southern  or  Lesley 
side,  still  mounting  up  there,  with  considerable  acclivity,  into 
a  high  table-ground,  out  of  which  the  Doon  Hill,  as  outskirt 
of  the  Lammermoor,  a  short  mile  to  your  right,  gradually 
gathers  itself.  There,  at  this  "pass,"  on  and  above  the 
present  London  road,  as  you  discover  after  long  dreary  dim 
examining,  took  place  the  brunt  or  essential  agony  of  the 
Battle  of  Dunbar  long  ago.  Read  in  the  extinct  old  Pam- 
phlets, and  ever  again  obstinately  read,  till  some  light  arise 
in  them,  look  even  with  unmilitary  eyes  at  the  ground  as  it 
now  is,  you  do  at  least  obtain  small  glimmerings  of  distinct 
features  here  and  there,  —  which  gradually  coalesce  into  a 
kind  of  image  for  you ;  and  some  spectrum  of  the  Fact  be- 
comes visible ;  rises  veritable,  face  to  face  on  you,  grim  and 
sad  in  the  depths  of  the  old  dead  Time.  Yes,  my  travelling 


52  THOMAS    CAKLYLE. 

friends,  vehiculating  in  gigs  or  otherwise  over  that  piece  of 
London  road,  you  may  say  to  yourselves,  Here  without 
monument  is  the  grave  of  a  valiant  thing  which  was  done 
under  the  Sun ;  the  footprint  of  a  Hero,  not  yet  quite  un- 
distinguishable,  is  here ! 

"  The  Lord  General  about  four  o'clock,"  say  the  old  Pam- 
phlets, "  went  into  the  Town  to  take  some  refreshment,"  a 
hasty  late  dinner,  or  early  supper,  whichever  we  may  call 
it ;  "  and  very  soon  returned  back,"  —  having  written  Sir 
Arthur's  Letter,  I  think,  in  the  interim.  Coursing  about 
the  field,  with  enough  of  things  to  order ;  walking  at  last 
with  Lambert  in  the  Park  or  Garden  of  Brocksmouth 
House,  he  discerns  that  Lesley  is  astir  on  the  Hillside ; 
altering  his  position  somewhat.  That  Lesley  in  fact  is 
coming  wholly  down  to  the  basis  of  the  Hill,  where  his 
horse  had  been  since  sunrise :  coming  wholly  down  to  the 
edge  of  the  Brook  and  glen,  among  the  sloping  harvest- 
fields  there  ;  and  also  is  bringing  up  his  left  wing  of  horse, 
most  part  of  it,  towards  his  right ;  edging  himself,  "  shog- 
ging,"  as  Oliver  calls  it,  his  whole  line  more  and  more  to 
the  right!  His  meaning  is,  to  get  hold  of  Brocksmouth 
House  and  the  pass  of  the  Brook  there ;  after  which  it  will 
be  free  to  him  to  attack  us  when  he  will !  Lesley  in  fact 
considered,  or  at  least  the  Committee  of  Estates  and  Kirk 
consider,  that  Oliver  is  lost ;  that,  on  the  whole,  he  must 
not  be  left  to  retreat,  but  must  be  attacked  and  annihilated 
here.  A  vague  story,  due  to  Bishop  Burnet,  the  watery 
source  of  many  such,  still  circulates  about  the  world,  That 
it  was  the  Kirk  Committee  who  forced  Lesley  down  against 
his  will ;  that  Oliver,  at  sight  of  it,  exclaimed,  "  The  Lord 
hath  delivered,"  &c. :  which  nobody  is  in  the  least  bound  to 
believe.  It  appears,  from  other  quarters,  that  Lesley  was 
advised  or  sanctioned  in  this  attempt  by  the  Committee  of 
Estates  and  Kirk,  but  also  that  he  was  by  no  means  hard  to 
advise  ;  that,  in  fact,  lying  on  the  top  of  Doon  Hill,  shelter- 


CROMWELL.  53 

less  in  such  weather,  was  no  operation  to  spin  out  beyond 
necessity ;  and  that  if  anybody  pressed  too  much  upon  him 
with  advice  to  come  down  and  fight,  it  was  likeliest  to  be 
Royalist  Civil  Dignitaries,  who  had  plagued  him  with  their 
cavillings  at  his  cunctations,  at  his  "secret  fellow-feeling  for 
the  Sectarians  and  Regicides."  ever  since  this  War  began. 
The  poor  Scotch  Clergy  have  enough  of  their  own  to  an- 
swer for  in  this  business ;  let  every  back  bear  the  burden 
that  belongs  to  it.  In  a  word,  Lesley  descends,  has  been  de- 
scending all  day,  and  "  shogs  "  himself  to  the  right,  urged  I 
believe,  by  manifold  counsel,  and  by  the  nature  of  the  case; 
and,  what  is  equally  important  for  us,  Oliver  sees  him,  and 
sees  through  him,  in  this  movement  of  his. 

At  sight  of  this  movement,  Oliver  suggests  to  Lambert 
standing  by  him,  Does  it  not  give  us  an  advantage,  if  we, 
instead  of  him,  like  to  begin  the  attack  ?  Here  is  the 
Enemy's  right  wing  coming  out  to  the  open  space,  free  to 
be  attacked  on  any  side ;  and  the  main-battle  hampered  in 
narrow  sloping  ground,  between  Doon  Hill  and  the  Brook, 
has  no  room  to  manoeuvre  or  assist :  beat  this  right  wing 
where  it  now  stands ;  take  it  in  flank  and  front  with  an 
overpowering  force,  —  it  is  driven  upon  its  own  main-battle, 
the  whole  Army  is  beaten  ?  Lambert  eagerly  assents  "  had 
meant  to  say  the  same  thing. "  Monk,  who  comes  up  at 
the  moment,  likewise  assents ;  as  the  other  Officers  do, 
when  the  case  is  set  before  them.  It  is  the  plan  resolved 
upon  for  battle.  The  attack  shall  begin  to-morrow  before 
dawn. 

And  so  the  soldiers  stand  to  their  arms,  or  lie  within  in- 
stant reach  of  their  arms,  all  night ;  being  upon  an  engage- 
ment very  difficult  indeed.  The  night  is  wild  and  wet ;  — 
2d  of  September  means  1 2th  by  our  calendar :  the  Harvest 
Moon  wades  deep  among  clouds  of  sleet  and  hail.  Who- 
ever has  a  heart  for  prayer,  let  him  pray  now,  for  the 
wrestle  of  death  is  at  hand.  Pray,  —  and  withal  keep  his 


54  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

powder  dry !  And  be  ready  for  extremities,  and  quit  him- 
self like  a  man !  Thus  they  pass  the  night ;  making  that 
Dunbar  Peninsula  and  Brock  Rivulet  long  memorable  to 
me.  We  English  have  some  tents;  the  Scots  have  none. 
The  hoarse  sea  moans  bodeful,  swinging  low  and  heavy 
against  these  whinstone  bays  ;  the  sea  and  the  tempests  are 
abroad,  all  else  asleep  but  we,  —  and  there  is  One  that  rides 
on  the  wings  of  the  wind. 

Towards  three  in  the  morning,  the  Scotch  foot,  by  order 
of  a  Major-General,  say  some,  extinguish  their  matches,  all 
but  two  in  a  company ;  cower  under  the  corn-shocks,  seek- 
ing some  imperfect  shelter  and  sleep.  Be  wakeful,  ye  Eng- 
lish ;  watch,  and  pray,  and  keep  your  powder  dry.  About 
four  o'clock  comes  order  to  my  pudding-headed  Yorkshire 
friend,  that  his  regiment  must  mount  and  march  straight- 
way ;  his  and  various  other  regiments  march,  pouring  swift- 
ly to  the  left  to  Brocksmouth  House,  to  the  Pass  over  the 
Brock.  With  overpowering  force  let  us  storm  the  Scots 
right  wing  there ;  beat  that,  and  all  is  beaten.  Major 
Hodgson,  riding  along,  heard,  he  says,  "  a  Cornet  praying 
in  the  night " ;  a  company  of  poor  men,  I  think,  making 
worship  there,  under  the  void  Heaven,  before  battle  joined : 
Major  Hodgson,  giving  his  charge  to  a  brother  Officer, 
turned  aside  to  listen  for  a  minute,  and  worship  and  pray 
along  with  them ;  haply  his  last  prayer  on  this  Earth,  as  it 
might  prove  to  beJ  But  no ;  this  Cornet  prayed  with  such 
effusion  as  was  wonderful ;  and  imparted  strength  to  my 
Yorkshire  friend,  who  strengthened  his  men  by  telling  them 
of  it.  And  the  Heavens,  in  their  mercy,  I  think,  have 
opened  us  a  way  of  deliverance  !  —  The  Moon  gleams  out, 
hard  and  blue,  riding  among  hail-clouds ;  and  over  St.  Abb's 
Head  a  streak  of  dawn  is  rising. 

And  now  is  the  hour  when  the  attack  should  be,  and  no 
Lambert  is  yet  here,  he  is  ordering  the  line  far  to  the  right 
yet ;  and  Oliver  occasionally,  in  Hodgson's  hearing,  is  impa- 


CROMWELL.  55 

tient  for  him.  The  Scots  too,  on  this  wing,  are  awake  ; 
thinking  to  surprise  us ;  there  is  their  trumpet  sounding,  we 
heard  it  once ;  and  Lambert,  who  was  to  lead  the  attack,  is 
not  here.  The  Lord  General  is  impatient;  —  behold  Lam- 
bert at  last !  The  trumpets  peal,  shattering  with  fierce 
clangor  Night's  silence ;  the  cannons  awaken  along  all  the 
line :  "  The  Lord  of  Hosts  !  The  Lord  of  Hosts  !  "  On, 
my  brave  ones,  on ! 

The  dispute  "  on  this  right  wing,  was  hot  and  stiff  for 
three  quarters  of  an  hour. "  Plenty  of  fire,  from  field- 
pieces,  snaphances,  matchlocks,  entertained  the  Scotch  main- 
battle  across  the  Brock ;  —  poor  stiffened  men,  roused  from 
the  corn-shocks  with  their  matches  all  out !  But  here  on 
the  right,  their  horse  "  with  lancers  in  the  front  rank," 
charge  desperately ;  drive  us  back  across  the  hollow  of  the 
Rivulet ;  back  a  little ;  but  the  Lord  gives  us  courage,  and 
we  storm  home  again,  horse  and  foot,  upon  them,  with  a 
shock  like  tornado  tempests ;  break  them,  beat  them,  drive 
them  all  adrift.  "  Some  fled  towards  Copperspath,  but  most 
across  their  own  foot. "  Their  own  poor  foot,  whose 
matches  were  hardly  well  alight  yet !  Poor  men,  it  was  a 
terrible  awakening  for  them :  field-pieces  and  charge  of  foot 
across  the  Brocksburn :  and  now  here  is  their  own  horse  in 
mad  panic,  trampling  them  to  death.  Above  Three-thou- 
sand killed  upon  the  place :  "  I  never  saw  such  a  charge  of 
foot  and  horse,"  says  one  ;  nor  did  I.  Oliver  was  still  near 
to  Yorkshire  Hodgson,  when  the  shock  succeeded.  Hodg- 
son heard  him  say :  "  They  run  !  I  profess  they  run  !  " 
And  over  St.  Abb's  Head,  and  the  German  Ocean,  just 
then,  burst  the  first  gleam  of  the  level  sun  upon  us,  "  and  I 
heard  Xol  say,  in  the  words  of  the  Psalmist, '  Let  God  arise, 
let  His  enemies  be  scattered,' "  —  or  in  Rous's  metre, 

Let  God  arise,  and  scattered 

Let  all  his  enemies  be ; 
And  let  all  those  that  do  him  hate 

Before  his  presence  flee ! 


56  THOMAS    CARLYLE. 

Even  so.  The  Scotch  Array  is  shivered  to  utter  ruin ; 
rushes  in  tumultuous  wreck,  hither,  thither ;  to  Belhaven, 
or,  in  their  distraction,  even  to  Dunbar ;  the  chase  goes  as 
far  as  Haddington ;  led  by  Hacker.  "  The  Lord  General 
made  a  halt,"  says  Hodgson,  "  and  sang  the  Hundred-and- 
seventeenth  Psalm,"  till  our  horse  could  gather  for  the 
chase.  Hundred-and-seventeenth  Psalm,  at  the  foot  of  the 
Doon  Hill ;  there  we  uplift  it,  to  the  tune  of  Bangor,  or 
some  still  higher  score,  and  roll  it  strong  and  great  against 
the  sky : 

O  give  ye  praise  unto  the  Lord, 

All  nati-ons  that  be ; 
Likewise  ye  people  all  accord 
His  name  to  magnify  ! 

For  great  to-us-ward  ever  are 

His  loving  kindnesses ; 
His  truth  endures  for  evermore : 

The  Lord,  O  do  ye  bless  ! 

And  now  to  the  chase  again. 

The  prisoners  are  Ten-thousand,  —  all  the  foot  in  a  mass. 
*  *  *  Such  is  Dunbar  Battle ;  which  might  almost  be 
called  Dunbar  Drove,  for  it  was  a  frightful  rout.  Brought 
on  by  miscalculation ;  misunderstanding  of  the  difference 
between  substances  and  semblances ;  —  by  mismanagement 
and  the  chance  of  war. 


DISMISSAL    OF    THE    RUMP, 

Wednesday,  2Qth  April,  1653.  —  My  Lord  General  is  in 
his  reception-room  this  morning,  in  plain  black  clothes  and 
gray  worsted  stockings ;  he,  with  many  Officers :  but  few 
Members  have  yet  come,  though  punctual  Bulstrode  and 
certain  others  are  there.  Some  waiting  there  is ;  some  im- 


CROMWELL.  57 

patience  that  the  Members  would  come.  The  Members  do 
not  come :  instead  of  Members,  comes  a  notice  that  they 
are  busy  getting  on  with  their  Bill  [for  Parliamentary  Re- 
form] in  the  House,  hurrying  it  double  quick  through  all 
the  stages.  Possible,  New  message  that  it  will  be  Law  in 
a  little  while,  if  no  interposition  take  place !  Bulstrode 
hastens  off  to  the  House :  my  Lord  General,  at  first  incred- 
ulous, does  now  also  hasten  off,  —  nay  orders  that  a  com- 
pany of  Musketeers  of  his  own  regiment  attend  him.  Hast- 
ens off,  with  a  very  high  expression  of  countenance,  I  think  ; 
saying  or  feeling :  Who  would  have  believed  it  of  them  ? 
"  It  is  not  honest ;  yea  it  is  contrary  to  common  honesty  ! "  — 
My  Lord  General,  the  big  hour  is  come ! 

Young  Colonel  Sidney,  the  celebrated  Algernon,  sat  in 
the  House  this  morning:  a  House  of  some  Fifty -three.  Al- 
gernon has  left  distinct  note  of  the  affair ;  less  distinct  we 
have  from  Bulstrode,  who  was  also  there,  who  seems  in 
some  points  to  be  even  wilfully  wrong.  Solid  Ludlow  was 
far  off  in  Ireland,  but  gathered  many  details  in  after-years; 
and  faithfully  wrote  them  down,  in  the  unappeasable  indig- 
nation of  his  heart.  Combining  these  three  originals,  we 
have,  after  various  perusals  and  collations  and  consider- 
ations, obtained  the  following  authentic,  moderately  con- 
ceivable account. 

"  The  Parliament  sitting  as  usual,  and  being  in  debate 
upon  the  Bill,  with  the  amendments,  which  it  was  thought 
would  have  been  passed  that  day,  the  Lord  General  Crom- 
well came  into  the  House,  clad  in  plain  black  clothes  and 
gray  worsted-stocking?,  and  sat  down,  as  he  used  to  do,  in 
an  ordinary  place."  For  some  time  he  listens  to  this  in- 
teresting debate  on  the  Bill ;  beckoning  once  to  Harrison, 
who  came  over  to  him,  and  answered  dubitatingly.  Where- 
upon the  Lord  General  sat  still,  for  about  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  longer.  But  now  the  question  being  to  be  put,  That 
this  Bill  do  now  pass,  he  beckons  again  to  Harrison,  says, 
3* 


58  THOMAS   CAELYLE. 

"  This  is  the  time  I  must  do  it ! "  —  and  so  "  rose  up,  put  off 
his  hat,  and  spake.  At  the  first,  and  for  a  good  while,  he 
spake  to  the  commendation  of  the  Parliament  for  their  pains 
and  care  of  the  public  good  ;  but  afterwards  he  changed  his 
style,  told  them  of  their  injustice,  delays  of  justice,  self- 
interest,  and  other  faults,"  —  rising  higher  and  higher,  into 
a  very  aggravated  style  indeed.  An  honorable  Member, 
Sir  Peter  Wentworth  by  name,  not  known  to  my  readers, 
and  by  me  better  known  than  trusted,  rises  to  order,  as  we 
phrase  it;  says,  "It  is  a  strange  language  this;  unusual 
within  the  walls  of  Parliament  this !  And  from  a  trusted 
servant  too ;  and  one  whom  we  have  so  highly  honored ; 
and  one  —  "  "  Come,  come  !  "  exclaims  my  Lord  General, 
in  a  very  high  key.  "  We  have  had  enough  of  this,"  — 
and  in  fact  my  Lord 'General,  now  blazing  all  up  into  clear 
conflagration,  exclaims,  "  I  will  put  an  end  to  your  prating," 
and  steps  forth  into  the  floor  of  the  House,  and  "clapping 
on  his  hat,"  and  occasionally  "stamping  the  floor  with  his 
feet,"  begins  a  discourse  which  no  man  can  report!  He 
says  —  Heavens  !  he  is  heard  saying :  "  It  is  not  fit  that  you 
should  sit  here  any  longer !  You  have  sat  too  long  here  for 
any  good  you  have  been  doing  lately.  You  shall  now  give 
place  to  better  men !  —  Call  them  in ! "  adds  he  briefly,  to 
Harrison,  in  word  of  command :  "  and  some  twenty  or 
thirty  "  grim  musketeers  enter,  with  bullets  in  their  snap- 
hances  ;  grimly  prompt  for  orders  ;  and  stand  in  some  atti- 
tude of  Carry-arms  there.  Veteran  men  :  men  of  might 
and  men  of  war,  their  faces  are  as  the  faces  of  lions,  and 
their  feet  are  swift  as  the  roes  upon  the  mountains  :  —  not 
beautiful  to  honorable  gentlemen  at  this  moment. 

"  You  call  yourselves  a  Parliament,"  continues  my  Lord 
General,  in  clear  blaze  of  conflagration :  "  you  are  no  Par- 
liament ;  I  say,  you  are  no  Parliament !  some  of  you  are 
drunkards,"  —  and  his  eye  flashes  on  poor  Mr  Chaloner,  an 
official  man  of  some  value,  addicted  to  the  bottle  ;  "  some  of 


CROMWELL.  59 

you  are ,"  and  he  glares  into  Harry  Marten,  and  the 

poor  Sir  Peter,  who  rose  to  order,  lewd  livers  both  ;  "living 
in  open  contempt  of  God's  Commandments.  Following 
your  own  greedy  appetites,  and  the  Devil's  Command- 
ments. '  Corrupt,  unjust  persons.' "  "  And  here,  I  think, 
he  glanced  at  Sir  Bulstrode  "Whitlocke,  one  of  the  Com- 
missioners of  the  Great  Seal,  giving  him  and  others  very 
sharp  language,  though  he  named  them  not " :  "  Corrupt, 
unjust  persons  ;  scandalous  to  the  profession  of  the  Gospel : 
how  can  you  be  a  Parliament  for  God's  People  ?  Depart, 
I  say ;  and  let  us  have  done  with  you.  In  the  name  of 
God,  — go!" 

The  House  is  of  course  all  on  its  feet,  —  uncertain  almost 
whether  not  on  its  head :  such  a  scene  as  was  never  seen 
before  in  any  House  of  Commons.  History  reports  with  a 
shudder  that  my  Lord  General,  lifting  the  sacred  Mace 
itself,  said,  "  What  shall  we  do  with  this  bawble  ?  Take  it 
away ! "  —  and  gave  it  to  a  musketeer.  And  now,  "  Fetch 
him  down  ! "  says  he  to  Harrison,  flashing  on  the  Speaker. 
Speaker  Lenthall,  more  an  ancient  Roman  than  anything 
else,  declares,  He  will  not  come  till  forced.  "  Sir,"  said 
Harrison,  "  I  will  lend  you  a  hand  " ;  —  on  which  Speaker 
Lenthall  came  down,  and  gloomily  vanished.  They  all 
vanished ;  flooding  gloomily,  clamorously  out,  to  their  ulte- 
rior business,  and  respective  places  of  abode :  the  Long 
Parliament  is  dissolved !  "  '  It 's  you,  that  have  forced  me  to 
this,'  exclaims  my  Lord  General :  '  I  have  sought  the  Lord 
night  and  day,  that  He  would  rather  slay  me  than  put  me 
upon  the  doing  of  this  work.'  At  their  going  out,  some  say, 
the  Lord  General  said  to  young  Sir  Harry  Vane,  calling 
him  by  his  name,  that  he  might  have  prevented  this ;  but 
that  he  was  a  juggler,  and  had  not  common  honesty.  '  O, 
Sir  Harry  Vane,  thou  with  thy  subtle  casuistries,  and  ab- 
struse hair-splittings,  thou  art  other  than  a  good  one,  I 
think !  The  Lord  deliver  thee  from  me,  Sir  Harry  Vane !' 


60  THOMAS    CARLYLE. 

All  being  gone  out,  the  door  of  the  House  was  locked,  and 
the  Key  with  the  Mace,  as  I  heard,  was  carried  away  by 
Colonel  Otley  " ;  —  and  it  is  all  over,  and  the  unspeakable 
Catastrophe  has  come,  and  remains. 


THE    BAREBONES    PARLIAMENT. 

CONCERNING  this  Puritan  Convention  of  the  Notables, 
which  in  English  History  is  called  the  Little  Parliament, 
and  derisively  Harebones's  Parliament,  we  have  not  much 
more  to  say.  They  are,  if  by  no  means  the  remarkablest 
Assembly,  yet  the  Assembly  for  the  remarkablest  purpose 
who  have  ever  met  in  the  Modern  "World.  The  business  is, 
No  less  than  introducing  of  the  Christian  Religion  into  real 
practice  in  the  Social  Affairs  of  this  Nation.  Christian  Re- 
ligion, Scriptures  of  the  Old  and  New  Testaments :  such, 
for  many  hundred  years,  has  been  the  universal  solemnly 
recognized  Theory  of  all  men's  Affairs ;  Theory  sent  down 
out  of  Heaven  itself;  but  the  question  is  now  that  of  reduc- 
ing it  to  Practice  in  said  Affairs ;  —  a  most  noble,  surely, 
and  most  necessary  attempt;  which  should  not  have  been 
put  off  so  long  in  this  Nation  !  We  have  conquered  the  En- 
emies of  Christ;  let  us  now,  in  real  practical  earnest,  set 
about  doing  the  Commandments  of  Christ,  now  that  there  is 
free  room  for  us  !  Such  was  the  purpose  of  this  Puritan  As- 
sembly of  the  Notables,  which  History  calls  the  Little  Par- 
liament, or  derisively  JBarebones's  Parliament. 

It  is  well  known  they  failed  :  to  us,  alas  !  it  is  too  evident 
they  could  not  but  fail.  Fearful  impediments  lay  against 
that  effort  of  theirs  ;  the  sluggishness,  the  slavish  half-and- 
halfness,  the  greediness,  the  cowardice,  and  general  opacity 
and  falsity  of  some  ten  million  men  against  it ;  alas,  the 
whole  world,  and  what  we  call  the  Devil  and  all  his  angels, 


CROMWELL.  61 

against  it !  Considerable  angels,  human  and  other ;  most  ex- 
tensive arrangements,  investments  to  be  sold  off  at  a  tre- 
mendous sacrifice ;  in  general  the  entire  set  of  luggage-traps 
and  very  extensive  stock  of  merchant-goods  and  real  and 
floating  property,  amassed  by  that  assiduous  Entity  above- 
mentioned,  for  a  thousand  years  or  more !  For  these,  and 
also  for  other  obstructions,  it  could  not  take  effect  at  that 
time ;  and  the  Little  Parliament  became  a  Barebones's  Par- 
liament, and  had  to  go  its  ways  again. 


CONSPIRACIES. 

To  see  a  little  what  kind  of  England  it  was,  and  what 
kind  of  incipient  Protectorate  it  was,  take,  as  usual,  the  fol- 
lowing small  and  few  fractions  of  Authenticity  of  various 
complexion,  fished  from  the  doubtful  slumber-lakes,  and 
dust  vortexes,  and  hang  them  out  at  their  places  in  the  void 
night  of  things.  They  are  not  very  luminous ;  but  if  they 
were  well  let  alone,  and  the  positively  tenebrific  were  well 
forgotten,  they  might  assist  our  imaginations  in  some  slight 
measure. 

Sunday,  18th  December,  1653.  A  certain  loud-tongued, 
loud-minded  Mr.  Feak,  of  Anabaptist-Leveller  persuasion, 
with  a  Colleague  seemingly  Welsh,  named  Powel,  have  a 
Preaching-Establishment,  this  good  while  past  in  Black- 
friars  ;  a  Preaching-Establishment  every  Sunday,  which  on 
Monday  evening  becomes  a  National-Charter  Convention 
as  we  should  now  call  it ;  there  Feak,  Powel,  and  Company 
are  in  the  habit  of  vomiting  forth  from  their  own  inner-man, 
into  other  inner-men  greedy  of  such  pabulum,  a  very  flamy 
fuliginous  set  of  doctrines,  —  such  as  the  human  mind, 
superadding  Anabaptistry  to  Sansculottism,  can  make  some 
attempt  to  conceive.  Sunday,  the  18th,  which  is  two  days 


62  THOMAS   CAELYLE. 

after  the  Lord  Protector's  Installation,  this  Feak-Powel 
Meeting  was  unusually  large  ;  the  Feak-Powel  inner-man 
unusually  charged.  Elements  of  soot  and  fire  really  copi- 
ous :  fuliginous  flamy  in  a  very  high  degree  !  At  a  time, 
too,  when  all  Doctrine  does  not  satisfy  itself  with  spouting, 
but  longs  to  become  instant  Action.  "  Go  and  tell  your 
Protector,"  said  the  Anabaptist  Prophet,  "  that  he  has  de- 
ceived the  Lord's  People  ;  that  he  is  a  perjured  villain,"  — 
"  will  not  reign  long,"  or  I  am  deceived :  "  will  end  wt>rse 
than  the  last  Protector  did,"  Protector  Somerset  who  died 
on  the  scaffold,  or  the  tyrant  Crooked  Richard  himself! 
Say  I  said  it !  A  very  foul  chimney  indeed,  here  got  on 
fire.  And  "  Major  General  Harrison,  the  most  eminent 
man  of  the  Anabaptist  Party,  being  consulted  whether 
he  would  own  the  new  Protectoral  Government,  answered 
frankly,  No";  was  thereupon  ordered  to  retire  home  to 
Staffordshire,  and  keep  quiet. 

Does  the  reader  bethink  him  of  those  old  Leveller  Cor- 
porals at  Burford,  and  Diggers  at  St.  George's  Hill  five 
years  ago ;  of  Quakerisms,  Calvinistic  Sansculottisms,  and 
one  of  the  strangest  Spiritual  Developments  ever  seen  in 
any  country  ?  The  reader  sees  here  one  foul  chimney  on 
fire,  the  Feak-Powel  chimney  in  Blackfriars  ;  and  must  con- 
sider for  himself  what  masses  of  combustible  materials,  no- 
ble fuel  and  base  soot  and  smoky  explosive  fire-damp,  in 
the  general  English  Household  it  communicates  with !  Re- 
publicans Proper,  of  the  Long  Parliament;  Republican 
Fifth-Monarchists  of  the  Little  Parliament ;  the  solid  Lud- 
lows,  the  fervent  Harrisons :  from  Harry  Vane  down  to 
Christopher  Feak,  all  manner  of  Republicans  find  Cromwell 
unforgivable.  To  the  Harrison-and-Feak  species  Kingship 
in  every  sort,  and  government  of  man  by  man,  is  carnal, 
expressly  contrary  to  various  Gospel  Scriptures.  Very  hor- 
rible for  a  man  to  think  of  governing  men ;  whether  he 
ought  even  to  govern  cattle,  and  drive  them  to  field  and  to 


CROMWELL.  63 

needful  penfold,  "except  in  the  way  of  love  and  persua- 
sion," seems  doubtful  to  me !  But  fancy  a  reign  of  Christ 
and  his  Saints ;  Christ  and  his  Saints  just  about  to  come, 
—  had  not  Oliver  Cromwell  stept  in  and  prevented  it! 
The  reader  discerns  combustabilities  enough  ;  conflagrations, 
plots,  stubborn  disaffections  and  confusions,  on  the  Republi- 
can and  Republican-Anabaptist  side  of  things.  It  is  the 
first  Plot-department  which  my  Lord  Protector  will  have  to 
deal  with  all  his  life  long.  This  he  must  wisely  clamp  down, 
as  he  may.  Wisely:  for  he  knows  what  is  noble  in  the 
matter,  and  what  is  base  in  it;  and  would  not  sweep  the 
fuel  and  the  soot  both  out  of  doors  at  once. 

Tuesday,  l±th  February,  1653-4.  "At  the  Ship-Tavern 
in  the  Old  Bailey,  kept  by  Mr.  Thomas  Amps,"  we  come 
upon  the  second  life-long  Plot-department:  Eleven  trucu- 
lent, rather  threadbare  persons,  sitting  over  small  drink 
there,  on  the  Tuesday  night,  considering  how  the  Protector 
might  be  assassinated.  Poor  broken  Royalist  men ;  payless 
old  Captains,  most  of  them,  or  such  like ;  with  their  steeple- 
hats  worn  very  brown,  and  jack-boots  slit,  —  and  projects 
that  cannot  be  executed,  Mr.  Amps  knows  nothing  of 
them,  except  that  they  came  to  him  to  drink ;  nor  do  we. 
Probe  them  with  questions ;  clap  them  in  the  Tower  for  a 
while ;  Guilty,  poor  knaves  :  but  not  worth  hanging  :  —  dis- 
appear again  into  the  general  mass  of  Royalist  Plotting, 
and  ferment  there. 

The  Royalists  have  lain  quiet  ever  since  Worcester,  wait- 
ing what  issue  matters  would  take.  Dangerous  to  meddle 
with  a  Rump  Parliament ;  or  other  steadily  regimented 
thing ;  safer  if  you  can  find  it  fallen  out  of  rank ;  hope- 
fullest  of  all  when  it  collects  itself  into  a  Single  Head. 
The  Royalists  judge,  with  some  reason,  that  if  they  could 
kill  Oliver  Protector,  this  Commonwealth  were  much  en- 
dangered. In  these  Easter  weeks,  too,  or  Whitsun  weeks, 
there  comes  "  from  our  Court,"  (Charles  Stuart's  Court,) 


64  THOMAS   CAELYLE. 

"at  Paris,"  great  encouragement  to  all  men  of  spirit  in 
straitened  circumstances,  A  Royal  Proclamation  "  By  the 
King,"  drawn  up,  say  some,  by  Secretary  Clarendon ;  set- 
ting forth  that  "  Whereas  a  certain  base,  mechanic  fellow, 
by  name  Oliver  Cromwell,  has  usurped  our  throne,"  much 
to  our  and  other  people's  inconvenience,  whosoever  will  kill 
the  said  mechanic  fellow  "  by  sword,  pistol,  or  poison,"  shall 
have  £  500  a  year  settled  upon  him,  with  colonelcies  in  our 
Army,  and  other  rewards  suitable,  and  be  a  made  man,  — 
"  on  the  word  and  faith  of  a  Christian  King."  A  Procla- 
mation which  cannot  be  circulated  except  in  secret ;  but  is 
well  worth  reading  by  all  loyal  men.  And  so  Royalist 
Plots  also  succeed  one  another,  thick  and  threefold  through 
Oliver's  whole  life ;  —  but  cannot  take  effect.  Vain  for  a 
Christian  King  and  his  cunningest  Chancellors  to  summon 
all  the  sinners  of  the  Earth,  and  whatever  of  necessitous 
Truculent-Flunkeyism  there  may  be,  and  to  bid,  in  the 
name  of  Heaven  and  of  another  place,  for  the  Head  of 
Oliver  Cromwell ;  once  for  all,  they  cannot  have  it,  that 
Head  of  Cromwell ;  —  not  till  he  has  entirely  done  with  it, 
and  can  make  them  welcome  to  their  benefit  from  it. 


JAMES  NAYLER  AND  COMPANY. 

"!N  the  month  of  October,  1655,"  there  was  seen  a 
strange  sight  at  Bristol  in  the  West.  A  Procession  of 
Eight  Persons  ;  one,  a  man  on  horseback,  riding  single ;  the 
others,  men  and  women,  partly  riding  double,  partly  on  foot, 
in  the  muddiest  highway,  in  the  wettest  weather ;  singing, 
all  but  the  single  rider,  at  whose  bridle  splash  and  walk  two 
women :  "  Hosannah  !  Holy,  holy  !  Lord  God  of  Sabaoth  ! " 
and  other  things,  "  in  a  buzzing  tone,"  which  the  impartial 
hearer  could  not  make  out.  The  single-rider  is  a  rawboned 


CROMWELL.  65 

male  figure,  "with  lank  hair  reaching  below  his  cheeks;" 
hat  drawn  close  over  his  brows  ;  "  nose  rising  slightly  in  the 
middle  ; "  of  abstruse  "  down  look,"  and  large  dangerous 
jaws  strictly  closed :  he  sings  not ;  sits  there  covered ;  and 
is  sung  to  by  the  others  bare.  Amid  pouring  deluges,  and 
mud  knee-deep :  "  so  that  the  rain  ran  in  at  their  necks,  and 
they  vented  it  at  their  hose  and  breeches  " :  a  spectacle  to 
the  West  of  England  and  Posterity !  Singing  as  above ; 
answering  no  question  except  in  song.  From  Bedminster 
to  Ratcliffe  Gate,  along  the  streets  to  the  High  Cross  of 
Bristol :  at  the  High  Cross  they  are  laid  hold  of  by  the 
Authorities  ;  —  turn  out  to  be  James  Nayler  and  Company. 
James  Nayler,  "  from  Andersloe "  or  Ardsley  "  in  York- 
shire," heretofore  a  Trooper  under  Lambert ;  now  a  Qua- 
ker and  something  more.  Infatuated  Nayler  and  Com- 
pany ;  given  up  to  Enthusiam,  —  to  Animal-Magnetism,  to 
Chaos  and  Bedlam  in  one  shape  or  other !  Who  will  need 
to  be  coerced  by  the  Major-General?,  I  think ;  —  to  be  for- 
warded to  London,  and  there  sifted  and  cross-questioned. 
Is  not  the  Spiritualism  of  England  developing  itself  in 
strange  forms  ?  The  Hydra,  royalist  and  sansculottic,  has 
many  heads. 


THE    WEST   INDIAN   INTEREST. 

THE  Grand  Sea- Armament  which  sailed  from  Portsmouth 
at  Christmas,  1654,  proved  unsuccessful.  It  went  west- 
ward ;  opened  its  sealed  Instructions  at  a  certain  latitude ; 
found  that  they  were  instructions  to  attack  Hispaniola,  to 
attack  the  Spanish  Power  in  the  West  Indies  ;  it  did  attack 
Hispaniola,  and  lamentably  failed;  attacked  the  Spanish 
Power  in  the  West  Indies,  and  has  hitherto  realized  almost 
nothing,  —  a  mere  waste  Island  of  Jamacia,  to  all  appear- 
ance little  worth  the  keeping  at  such  cost.  It  is  hitherto 


66  THOMAS    CARLYLE. 

the  unsuccessfulest  enterprise  Oliver  Cromwell  ever  had 
concern  with.  Desborow  fitted  it  out  at  Portsmouth,  while 
the  Lord  Protector  was  busy  with  his  First  refractory  Ped- 
ant Parliament ;  there  are  faults  imputed  to  Desborow :  but 
the  grand  fault  the  Lord  Protector  imputes  to  himself,  That 
he  chose,  or  sanctioned  the  choice  of  Generals  improper  to 
command  it.  Sea-General  Penn,  Land-General  Venables, 
they  were  unfortunate,  they  were  incompetent ;  fell  into 
disagreements,  into  distempers  of  the  bowels ;  had  crit- 
ical Civil  Commissioners  with  them,  too,  who  did  not  mend 
the  matter.  Venables  lay  "  six  weeks  in  bed,"  very  ill  of 
sad  "West-India  maladies ;  for  the  rest,  a  covetous  lazy  dog, 
who  cared  nothing  for  the  business,  but  wanted  to  be  home 
at  his  Irish  Government  again.  Penn  is  Father  of  Penn 
the  Pennsylvanian  Quaker  ;  a  man  somewhat  quick  of  tem- 
per "  like  to  break  his  heart,"  when  affairs  went  wrong ; 
unfit  to  right  them  again.  The  two  Generals  came  volun- 
tarily home  in  the  end  of  last  August  [1655],  leaving  the 
wreck  of  their  forces  in  Jamaica;  and  were  straightway 
lodged  in  the  Tower  for  quitting  their  post. 

A  great  Armament  of  Thirty,  nay  of  Sixty  ships  ;  of 
Four-thousand  soldiers,  two  regiments  of  whom  were  vet- 
erans, the  rest  a  somewhat  sad  miscellany  of  broken  Royal- 
ists, unruly  Levellers,  and  the  like,  who  would  volunteer,  — 
whom  Venables  augmented  at  Barbadoes,  with  a  still  more 
unruly  set  to  Nine-thousand :  this  great  Armament  the 
Lord  Protector  has  strenuously  hurled,  as  a  sudden  fiery 
bolt,  into  the  dark  Domdaniel  of  Spanish  Iniquity  in  the  far 
West ;  and  it  has  exploded  there,  almost  without  effect. 
The  Armament  saw  Hispaniola,  and  Hispaniola  with  fear 
and  wonder  saw  it,  on  the  14th  of  April,  1655:  but  the 
Armament,  a  sad  miscellany  of  distempered  unruly  persons, 
durst  not  land  "  where  Drake  had  landed,"  and  at  once  take 
the  Town  and  Island  :  the  Armament  hovered  hither  and 
thither;  and  at  last  agreed  to  land  some  sixty  miles  off; 


CROMWELL.  67 

marched  therefrom  through  thick-tangled  woods,  under  trop- 
ical heats,  till  it  was  nearly  dead  with  mere  marching; 
•was  then  set  upon  by  ambuscadoes ;  fought  miserably  ill, 
the  unruly  persons  of  it,  or  would  not  fight  at  all;  fled 
back  to  its  ships  a  mass  of  miserable  disorganic  ruin ;  and 
"  dying  there  at  the  rate  of  two-hundred  a  day,"  made  for 
Jamaica. 

Jamaica,  a  poor  unpopulous  Island,  was  quickly  taken,  as 
rich  Hispaniola  might  have  been,  and  the  Spaniards  were 
driven  away :  but  to  men  in  biliary  humor  it  seemed  hardly 
worth  the  taking  or  the  keeping.  "  Immense  droves  of 
wild  cattle :  cows  and  horses,  run  about  Jamacia " ;  dusky 
Spaniards  dwell  in  hatos,  in  unswept  shealings  :  "  80,000 
hogs  are  killed  every  year  for  the  sake  of  their  lard,  which 
is  sold  under  the  name  of  hog's-butter  at  Carthagena " :  but 
what  can  we  do  with  all  that !  The  poor  Armament  con- 
tinuing to  die  as  if  by  murrain,  and  all  things  looking  worse 
and  worse  to  poor  biliary  Generals.  Sea- General  Penn  set 
sail  for  home,  whom  Land-General  Venables  swiftly  fol- 
lowed: leaving  Vice- Admiral  Goodson,  "Major-General 
Fortescue,"  or  almost  whosoever  liked,  to  manage  in  their 
absence,  and  their  ruined  moribund  forces  to  die  as  they 
could ;  —  and  are  now  lodged  in  the  Tower,  as  they  de- 
served to  be.  The  Lord  Protector,  and  virtually  England 
with  him,  had  hoped  to  see  the  dark  empire  of  bloody 
Antichristian  Spain  a  little  shaken  in  the  West ;  some 
reparation  got  for  its  inhuman  massacrings,  and  long  con- 
tinued tyrannies,  —  massacrings,  exterminations  of  us,  "  at 
St.  Kitts  in  1629,  at  Tortuga  in  1637,  at  Santa  Cruz 
in  1 650  " :  so,  in  the  name  of  England,  had  this  Lord  Pro- 
tector hoped ;  and  he  has  now  to  take  his  disappointment. 

The  ulterior  history  of  these  Western  Affairs,  of  this  new 
Jamaica  under  Cromwell,  lies  far  dislocated,  drowned  deep, 
in  the  Slumber-Lakes  of  Thurloe  and  Company ;  in  a  most 
dark,  stupefied,  and  altogether  dismal  condition.  A  history 


68  THOMAS    CARLYLE. 

indeed,  which,  as  you  painfully  fish  it  up  and  by  degrees 
reawaken  it  to  life,  is  in  itself  sufficiently  dismal.  Not 
much  to  be  intermeddled  with  here.  The  English  left  in 
Jamaica,  the  English  successively  sent  thither,  prosper  as  ill 
as  need  be ;  still  die,  soldiers  and  settlers  of  them,  at  a 
frightful  rate  per  day ;  languish,  for  most  part,  astonished  in 
their  sultry  strange  new  element ;  and  cannot  be  brought  to 
front  with  right  manhood  the  deadly  inextricable  jungle  of 
tropical  confusions,  outer  and  inner,  in  which  they  find  them- 
selves. Brave  Governors,  Fortescue,  Sedgwick,  Brayne, 
one  after  the  other,  die  rapidly,  of  the  climate  and  of  broken 
heart ;  their  life-fire  all  spent  there,  in  that  dark  chaos,  and 
as  yet  no  result  visible.  It  is  painful  to  read  what  misbe- 
havior there  is,  what  difficulties  there  are. 

Almost  the  one  steady  light-point  in  the  business  is  the 
Protector's  own  spirit  of  determination.  If  England  have 
now  a  "  West-India  Interest,"  and  Jamaica  be  an  Island 
worth  something,  it  is  to  this  Protector  mainly  that  we  owe 
it.  Here  too,  as  in  former  darknesses,  "  Hope  shines  in 
him,  like  a  pillar  of  fire,  when  it  has  gone  out  in  all  the 
others."  Having  put  his  hand  to  this  work,  he  will  not  for 
any  discouragement  turn  back.  Jamaica  shall  yet  be  a  col- 
ony ;  Spain  and  its  dark  Domdaniel  shall  yet  be  smitten  to 
the  heart,  —  the  enemies  of  God  and  His  Gospel,  by  the 
soldiers  and  servants  of  God.  It  must,  and  it  shall.  We 
have  failed  in  the  West,  but  not  wholly  ;  in  the  West  and  in 
the  East,  by  sea  and  by  land,  as  occasion  shall  be  min- 
istered, we  will  try  it  again  and  again Reinforce- 
ment went  on  the  back  of  reinforcement,  during  this  Pro- 
tector's lifetime ;  "  a  Thousand  Irish  Girls "  went ;  not  to 
speak  of  the  rogue-and-vagabond  species  from  Scotland, — 
"  we  can  help  you  "  at  any  time  "  to  two  or  three  hundred 
of  these."  And  so  at  length  a  West-India  Interest  did  take 
root;  and  bears  spices  and  poisons,  and  other  produce,  to 
this  day. 


CROMWELL.  69 


QUARTERMASTER   SLNDERCOMB   THE   ASSASSIN. 

MILES  SINDERCOMB,  now  a  cashiered  Quartermaster  liv- 
ing about  Town,  was  once  a  zealous  Deptford  lad,  who  en- 
listed to  fight  for  Liberty,  at  the  beginning  of  these  wars, 
lie  fought  strongly  on  the  side  of  Liberty,  being  an  earnest 
fierce  young  fellow ;  —  then  gradually  got  astray  into  Lev- 
elling courses,  and  wandered  ever  deeper  there,  till  day- 
light forsook  him,  and  it  became  quite  dark.  He  was  one 
of  the  desperate  misguided  Corporals,  or  Quartermasters, 
doomed  to  be  shot  at  Burford,  seven  years  ago :  but  he  es- 
caped over  night,  and  was  not  shot  there ;  took  service  in 
Scotland  ;  got  again  to  be  Quartermaster ;  was  in  the  Over- 
ton  Plot,  for  seizing  Monk  and  marching  into  England, 
lately;  whereupon  Monk  cashiered  him:  and  he  came  to 
Town ;  lodged  himself  here,  in  a  sulky  threadbare  man- 
ner,—  in  Alsatia  or  elsewhere.  A  gloomy  man  and  Ex- 
Quartermaster  ;  has  become  one  of  Sexby's  people,  "  on  the 
faith  of  a  Christian  King  " ;  nothing  now  left  of  him  but  the 
fierceness,  groping  some  path  for  itself,  in  the  utter  dark. 
Henry  Toope,  one  of  his  Highness's  Lifeguard :  gives  us, 
or  will  give  us,  an  inkling  of  Sindercomb ;  and  we  know 
something  of  his  courses  and  inventions,  which  are  many. 
He  rode  in  Hyde  Park  among  his  Highness's  escort,  with 
Sexby ;  but  the  deed  could  not  then  be  done.  Leave  me 
the  £  1  GOO,  said  he ;  and  I  will  find  a  way  to  do  it.  Sexby 
left  it  him  and  went  abroad. 

Inventive  Sindercomb  then  took  a  House  in  Hammer- 
smith ;  Garden-House,  I  think,  "  which  had  a  banqueting- 
room  looking  into  the  road " ;  road  very  narrow  at  that 
part ;  —  road  from  Whitehall  to  Hampton  Court  on  Satur- 
day afternoons.  Inventive  Sindercomb  here  set  about  pro- 
viding blunderbusses  of  the  due  explosive  force,  —  ancient 
"  infernal  machines,"  in  fact,  —  with  these  he  will  blow  his 


70  THOMAS  CARLYLE. 

Highness's  Coach  and  his  Highness's  self  into  small  pieces, 
if  it  please  Heaven.  It  did  not  please  Heaven,  —  prob- 
ably not  Henry  Toope  of  his  Highness's  Lifeguard.  This 
first  scheme  proved  a  failure. 

Inventive  Sindercomb,  to  justify  his  £1600,  had  to  try 
something.  He  decided  to  fire  Whitehall  by  night,  and  have 
a  stroke  at  his  Highness  in  the  tumult.  He  has  "  a  hun- 
dred swift  horses,  two  in  a  stable,  up  and  down  " :  —  set  a 
hundred  stout  ruffians  on  the  back  of  these,  in  the  nocturnal 
fire ;  and  try  Thursday,  8th  January,  1656— 7  ;  that  is  to  be 
the  Night.  On  the  dusk  of  Thursday,  January  8th,  he  with 
old-trooper  Cecil,  his  second  in  the  business,  attends  Public 
"Worship  in  Whitehall  Chapel ;  is  seen  loitering  there  after- 
wards, "  near  the  Lord  Lambert's  seat."  Nothing  more  is 
seen  of  him  :  but  about  half-past  eleven  at  night,  the  senti- 
nel on  guard  catches  a  smell  of  fire  ;  —  finds  holed  wain- 
scots, picked  locks ;  a  basket  of  the  most  virulent  wildfire, 
"  fit  almost  to  burn  through  stones,"  with  lit  match  slowly 
creeping  towards  it,  computed  to  reach  it  in  some  half-hour 
hence,  about  the  stroke  of  midnight!  —  His  Highness  is 
summoned,  the  Council  is  summoned ;  —  alas,  Toope  of  the 
Lifeguard  is  examined  and  Sindercomb's  lodging  is  known. 
Just  when  the  wildfire  should  have  blazed,  two  Guardsmen 
wait  upon  Sindercomb ;  seize  him,  not  without  hard  defence 
on  his  part,  "  wherein  his  nose  was  nearly  cut  off" ;  bring 
him  to  his  Highness.  Toope  testifies ;  Cecil  peaches :  — 
inventive  Sindercomb  has  failed  for  the  last  time.  To  the 
Tower  with  him,  to  a  jury  of  his  country  with  him  !  —  The 
emotion  in  the  Parliament  and  in  the  Public,  next  morning, 
was  great.  It  had  been  proposed  to  ring  an  alarm  at  the 
moment  of  discovery,  and  summon  the  Trainbands  ;  but  his 
Highness  would  not  hear  of  it. 

This  Parliament,  really  intent  on  settling  the  Nation, 
could  not  want  for  emotions,  in  regard  to  such  a  matter! 
Parliament  adjourns  for  a  week,  till  the  roots  of  the  Plot  are 


CROMWELL.  71 

investigated  somewhat.  Parliament,  on  reassembling,  ap- 
points a  day  of  Thanksgiving  for  the  Nation ;  Friday,  come 
four  weeks,  which  is  February  20th,  that  shall  be  the  gen- 
eral Thanksgiving  Day :  and  in  the  mean  time  we  decide  to 
go  over  in  a  body,  and  congratulate  his  Highness.  A  mark 

of  great  respect  to  him 

On  Monday,  9th  February,  Sindercomb  was  tried  by  a 
jury- in  the  Upper  Bench  ;  and  doomed  to  suffer  as  a  traitor 
and  assassin,  on  the  Saturday  following.  The  night  before 
Saturday  his  poor  Sister,  though  narrowly  watched,  smug- 
gled him  some  poison  :  he  went  to  bed,  saying,  "  Well,  this 
is  the  last  time  I  shall  go  to  bed  " ;  the  attendants  heard  him 
snore  heavily,  and  then  cease  ;  they  looked,  and  he  lay  dead. 
"  He  was  of  that  wretched  sect  called  Soul- Sleepers,  who  be- 
lieve that  the  soul  falls  asleep  at  death  "  ;  a  gloomy,  far-mis- 
guided man.  They  buried  him  on  Tower-hill,  with  due  igno- 
miny, and  there  he  rests ;  with  none  but  frantic  Anabaptist 
Sexby,  or  Deceptive  Presbyterian  Titus,  to  sing  his  praise. 


INSTALLED    AS    PROTECTOR. 

LAND-GENERAL  REYNOLDS  has  gone  to  the  French  Neth- 
erlands, with  Six-thousand  men,  to  join  Turenne  in  fighting 
the  Spaniards  there ;  and  Sea-General  Montague,  is  about 
hoisting  his  flag  to  co-operate  with  him  from  the  other  ele- 
ment. By  sea  and  land  are  many  things  passing ;  —  and 
here  in  London  is  the  loudest  thing  of  all :  not  yet  to  be 
entirely  omitted  by  us,  though  now  it  has  fallen  very  silent 
in  comparison.  Inauguration  of  the  Lord  Protector ;  second 
and  more  solemn  Installation  of  him,  now  that  he  is  fully 
recognized  by  Parliament  itself.  He  cannot  yet,  as  it 
proves,  be  crowned  King ;  but  he  shall  be  installed  in  his 
Protectorship  with  all  solemnity  befitting  such  an  occasion. 

Friday,  2Qth  June,  1657.     The  Parliament  and  all  the 


72  THOMAS    CARLYLE. 

world  are  busy  with  this  grand  affair;  the  labors  of  the 
Session  being  now  complete,  the  last  finish  being  now  given 
to  our  new  Instrument  of  Government,  to  our  elaborate 
Petition  and  Advice,  we  will  add  this  topstone  to  the  work, 
and  so  amid  the  shoutings  of  mankind,  disperse  for  the 
recess.  Friday  at  two  o'clock,  "in  a  place  prepared,"  duly 
prepared,  with  all  manner  of  "  platforms,"  "  cloths  of  state," 
and  "  seats  raised  one  above  the  other,"  "  at  the  upper  end  of 
Westminster  Hall."  Palace  Yard,  and  London  generally, 
is  all  a-tiptoe,  out  of  doors.  Within  doors,  Speaker  Wid- 
drington  and  the  Master  of  the  Ceremonies  have  done  their 
best :  the  Judges,  the  Aldermen,  the  Parliament,  the  Coun- 
cil, the  foreign  Ambassadors,  and  domestic  Dignitaries  with- 
out end ;  chairs  of  state,  cloths  of  state,  trumpet-peals,  and 
acclamations  of  the  people  —  Let  the  reader  conceive  it ;  or 
read  in  old  pamphlets  the  "  exact  relation  "  of  it  with  all  the 
speeches  and  phenomena,  worthier  than  such  things  usually 
are  of  being  read. 

"  His  Highness  standing  under  the  Cloth  of  State,"  says 
Bulstrode,  whose  fine  feelings  are  evidently  touched  by  it, 
"  the  Speaker,  in  the  name  of  the  Parliament,  presented  to 
him :  First,  a  Robe  of  purple  velvet ;  which  the  Speaker, 
assisted  by  Whitlocke  and  others,  put  upon  his  Highness. 
Then  he,"  the  Speaker,  "  delivered  to  him  the  Bible  richly 
gilt  and  bossed,"  an  affecting  symbolic  Gift:  "After  that, 
the  Speaker  girt  the  Sword  about  his  Highness  ;  and  deliv- 
ered into  his  hand  the  Sceptre  of  massy  gold.  And  then, 
this  done,  he  made  a  Speech  to  him  on  these  several  things 
presented " ;  eloquent  mellifluous  Speech,  setting  forth  the 
high  and  true  significance  of  these  several  Symbols,  Speech 
still  worth  reading;  to  which  his  Highness  answered  in 
silence  by  dignified  gesture  only.  "  Then  Mr.  Speaker 
gave  him  the  Oath  " ;  and  so  ended  really  in  a  solemn  man- 
ner. "  And  Mr.  Manton,  by  prayer,  recommended  his 
Highness,  the  Parliament,  the  Council,  the  Forces  by  land 


CROMWELL.  73 

and  sea,  and  the  whole  Government  and  People  of  the 
Three  Nations,  to  the  blessing  and  protection  of  God." — 
And  then  "the  people  gave  several  great  shouts";  and 
"the  trumpets  sounded;  and  the  Protector  sat  in  his  .chair 
of  state,  holding  the  Sceptre  in  his  hand " ;  a  remarkable 
sight  to  see.  "On  his  right  sat  the  Ambassador  of 
France,"  on  his  left  some  other  Ambassador ;  and  all  round, 
standing  or  sitting,  were  Dignitaries  of  the  highest  quality ; 
"  and  near  the  Earl  of  Warwick,  stood  the  Lord  Viscount 
Lisle,  stood  General  Montague  and  Whitlocke,  each  of 
them  having  a  drawn  sword  in  his  hand,"  —  a  sublime  sight 
to  some  of  us ! 

And  so  this  Solemnity  transacts  itself;  —  which,  at  the 
moment,  was  solemn  enough ;  and  is  not  yet,  at  this  or  any 
hollowest  moment  of  Human  History,  intrinsically  alto- 
gether other.  A  really  dignified  and  veritable  piece  of  Sym- 
bolism ;  perhaps  the  last  we  hitherto,  in  these  quack-ridden 
histrionic  ages,  have  been  privileged  to  see  on  such  an  occa- 
sion. 


ROYALIST    INSURRECTION    FAILURE. 

His  Highness,  before  this  Monday's  sun  sets  [Feb.  4, 
1658J,  has  begun  to  lodge  the  Anarchic  Ringleaders,  Roy- 
alist, Fifth-Monarchist,  in  the  Tower ;  his  Highness  is  bent 
once  more  with  all  his  faculty,  the  Talking- Apparatus  being 
gone,  to  front  this  Hydra,  and  trample  it  down  once  again. 
On  Saturday  he  summons  his  Officers,  his  Acting- Appara- 
tus, to  Whitehall  round  him ;  explains  to  them  "  in  a  Speech 
two  hours  long  "  what  kind  of  Hydra  it  is  ;  asks,  Shall  it  con- 
quer us,  involve  us  in  blood  and  confusion  ?  They  answer 
from  their  hearts,  No,  it  shall  not !  "  We  will  stand  and 
fall  with  your  Highness,  we  will  live  and  die  with  you ! "  — 
It  is  the  last  duel  this  Oliver  has  with  any  Hydra  foment- 
4 


74  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

ed  into  life  by  a  Talking- Apparatus ;  and  he  again  conquers 
it,  invincibly  compresses  it,  as  he  has  heretofore  done. 

One  day,  in  the  early  days  of  March  next,  his  Highness 
said  to  Lord  Broghil :  An  old  friend  of  yours  is  in  Town, 
the  Duke  of  Ormond,  now  lodged  in  Drury  Lane,  at  the 
Papist  Surgeon's  there ;  you  had  better  tell  him  to  be  gone ! 
Whereat  his  Lordship  stared ;  found  it  a  fact  however  ;  and 
his  Grace  of  Ormond  did  go  with  exemplary  speed,  and  got 
again  to  Bruges  and  the  Sacred  Majesty,  with  report  That 
Cromwell  had  many  enemies,  but  that  the  rise  of  the  Roy- 
alists was  moonshine.  And  on  the  12th  of  the  month  his 
Highness  had  the  Mayor  and  Common  Council  with  him  in 
a  body  at  Whitehall ;  and  "  in  a  Speech  at  large  "  explained 
to  them  that  his  Grace  of  Ormond  was  gone  only  "  on  Tues- 
day last " ;  that  there  were  Spanish  Invasions,  Royalist  In- 
surrections, and  Frantic-Anabaptist  Insurrections  rapidly 
ripening ;  —  that  it  would  well  beseem  the  City  of  London 
to  have  its  Militia  in  good  order.  To  which  the  Mayor  and 
Common  Council  "  being  very  sensible  thereof,"  made  zeal- 
ous response  by  speech  and  by  act.  In  a  word,  the  Talk- 
ing-Apparatus being  gone,  and  an  Oliver  Protector  now  at 
the  head  of  the  Acting- Apparatus,  no  Insurrection,  in  the 
eyes  of  reasonable  persons,  had  any  chance.  The  leading 
Royalists  shrank  close  into  their  privacies  again,  —  consid- 
erable numbers  of  them  had  to  shrink  into  durance  in  the 
Tower.  Among  which  latter  class  his  Highness,  justly  in- 
censed, and  "  considering,"  as  Thurloe  says,  "  that  it  was  not 
fit  there  should  be  a  Plot  of  this  kind  every  winter,"  had 
determined  that  a  High  Court  of  Justice  should  take  cogni- 
zance of  some.  High  Court  of  Justice  is  accordingly  nomi- 
nated as  the  Act  of  Parliament  prescribes :  among  the  par- 
ties marked  for  Trial  by  it  are  Sir  Henry  Slingsby,  long 
since  prisoner  for  Penruddock's  business,  and  the  Rev.  Dr. 
Hewit,  a  man  of  much  forwardness  in  Royalism.  Sir  Henry, 
prisoner  in  Hull  and  acquainted  with  the  Chief  Officers 


CROMWELL.  75 

there,  haa  been  treating  with  them  for  betrayal  of  the  place 
to  his  Majesty ;  has  even,  to  that  end,  given  one  of  them  a 
Majesty's  Commission ;  for  whose  Spanish  Invasion  such  a 
Haven  and  Fortress  would  have  been  extremely  convenient. 
Reverend  Dr.  Hewit,  preaching  by  sufferance,  according  to 
the  old  ritual,  "  in  St.  Gregory's  Church  near  Paul's, "  to  a 
select  disaffected  audience,  has  farther  seen  good  to  distin- 
guish himself  very  much  by  secular  zeal  in  this  business  of 
the  Royalist  Insurrection  and  Spanish  Charles-Stuart  Inva- 
sion ; —  which  has  now  come  to  nothing,  and  left  poor  Dr. 
Hewit  in  a  most  questionable  position.  Of  these  two,  and 
of  others,  a  High  Court  of  Justice  shall  take  cognizance. 

The  Insurrection  having  no  chance  in  the  eyes  of  reason- 
able Royalists,  and  they  in  consequence  refusing  to  lead  it, 
the  large  body  of  wwreasonable  Royalists  now  in  London 
City,  or  gathering  thither,  decide,  with  indignation,  That  they 
will  try  it  on  their  own  score  and  lead  it  themselves.  Hands 
to  work,  then,  ye  unreasonable  Royalists  ;  pipe,  All  hands  ! 
Saturday  the  15th  of  May,  that  is  the  night  appointed:  To 
rise  that  Saturday  Night ;  beat  drums  for  "  Royalist  Ap- 
prentices," "  fire  houses  at  the  Tower,"  slay  this  man,  slay 
that,  and  bring  matters  to  a  good  issue.  Alas,  on  the  very 
edge  of  the  appointed  hour,  as  usual,  we  are  all  seized ;  the 
ringleaders  of  us  are  all  seized,  "  at  the  Mermaid  in  Cheap- 
side,"  —  for  Thurloe  and  his  Highness  have  long  known 
what  we  were  upon !  Barkstead,  Governor  of  the  Tower, 
"marches  into  the  City  with  five  drakes,"  at  the  rattle  of 
which  every  Royalist  Apprentice,  and  party  implicated, 
shakes  in  his  shoes :  —  and  this  also  has  gone  to  vapor, 
leaving  only  for  result  certain  new  individuals  of  the  Civic 
class  to  give  account  of  it  to  the  High  Court  of  Justice. 

Tuesday,  25th  May,  1658,  the  High  Court  of  Justice  sat ; 
a  formidable  Sanhedrim  of  above  a  Hundred-and-thirty 
heads ;  consisting  of  "  all  the  Judges,"  chief  Law  Officials, 
and  others  named  in  the  Writ,  according  to  Act  of  Parlia- 


76  THOMAS    CARLYLE. 

ment ;  —  sat  "  in  Westminster  Hall,  at  nine  in  the  morning, 
for  the  Trial  of  Sir  Henry  Slingsby,  Knight,  John  Hewit, 
Doctor  of  Divinity,"  and  three  others  whom  we  may  forget. 
Sat  day  after  day  till  all  were  judged.  Poor  Sir  Henry,  on 
the  first  day,  was  condemned ;  he  pleaded  what  he  could, 
poor  gentleman,  a  very  constant  Royalist  all  along ;  but  the 
Hull  business  was  too  palpable ;  he  was  condemned  to  die. 
Reverend  Dr.  Hewit,  whose  proceedings  also  had  become 
very  palpable,  refused  to  plead  at  all ;  refused  even  "  to  take 
off  his  hat,"  says  Carrion  Heath,  "  till  the  officer  was  coming 
to  do  it  for  him  "  ;  had  a  "  Paper  of  Demurrers  prepared  by 
the  learned  Mr.  Prynne,"  who  is  now  again  doing  business 
this  way ;  "  conducted  himself  not  very  wisely,"  says  Bui- 
strode.  He  likewise  received  sentence  of  death.  The  oth- 
ers, by  narrow  missing,  escaped  ;  by  good  luck,  or  the  Pro- 
tector's mercy,  suffered  nothing. 

As  to  Slingsby  and  Hewit,  the  Protector  was  inexorable. 
Hewit  has  already  taken  a  very  high  line :  let  him  perse- 
vere in  it !  Slingsby  was  the  Lord  Fauconberg's  uncle, 
married  to  his  Aunt  Bellasis ;  but  that  could  not  stead  him, 
—  perhaps  that  was  but  a  new  monition  to  be  strict  with 
him.  The  Commonwealth  of  England  and  its  Peace  are  not 
nothing !  These  Royalist  Plots  every  winter,  deliveries 
of  garrisons  to  Charles  Stuart,  and  reckless  "  usherings  of  us 
into  blood,"  shall  end !  Hewit  and  ^Slingsby  suffered  on 
Tower  Hill,  on  Monday,  8th  June ;  amid  the  manifold 
rumor  and  emotion  of  men.  Of  the  City  insurrectionists 
six  were  condemned ;  three  of  whom  were  executed,  three 
pardoned.  And  so  the  High  Court  of  Justice  dissolved 
itself;  and  at  this  and  not  at  more  expense  of  blood,  the 
huge  Insurrectionary  movement  ended,  and  lay  silent  within 
its  caves  again. 

Whether  in  any  future  year  it  would  have  tried  another 
rising  against  such  a  Lord  Protector,  one  does  not  know,  — 
one  guesses  rather  in  the  negative.  The  Royalist  Cause, 


CROMWELL.  77 

after  so  many  failures,  after  such  a  sort  of  enterprises  u  on 
the  word  of  a  Christian  King,"  had  naturally  sunk  very  low. 
Some  twelvemonth  hence,  with  a  Commonwealth  not  now 
under  Cromwell,  but  only  under  the  impulse  of  Cromwell, 
a  Christian  King  hastening  down  to  the  Treaty  of  the  Pyr- 
enees, where  France  and  Spain  were  making  Peace,  found 
one  of  the  coldest  receptions.  Cardinal  Mazarin  "  sent  his 
coaches  and  guards  a  day's  journey  to  meet  Lockhart,  the 
Commonwealth  Ambassador";  but  refused  to  meet  the 
Christian  King  at  all ;  would  not  even  meet  Ormond  except 
as  if  by  accident,  "  on  the  public  road,"  to  say  that  there  was 
no  hope.  The  Spanish  Minister,  Don  Louis  de  Haro,  was 
civiller  in  manner ;  but  as  to  Spanish  Charles-Stuart  Inva- 
sions or  the  like,  he  also  decisively  shook  his  head.  The 
Royalist  cause  was  as  good  as  desperate  in  England ;  a  mel- 
ancholy Reminiscence,  fast  fading  away  into  the  realm  of 
shadows.  Not  till  Puritanism  sank  of  its  own  accord,  could 
Royalism  rise  again.  But  Puritanism,  the  King  of  it  once 
away,  fell  loose  very  naturally  in  every  fibre, — fell  into 
Kinc/lessness,  what  we  call  Anarchy ;  crumbled  down,  ever 
faster,  for  Sixteen  Months,  in  mad  suicide,  and  universal 
clashing  and  collision ;  proved,  by  trial  after  trial,  that  there 
lay  not  in  it  either  Government  or  so  much  as  Self-Govern- 
ment  any  more ;  that  a  Government  of  England  by  it  was 
henceforth  an  impossibility.  Amid  the  general  wreck  of 
things,  all  Government  threatening  now  to  be  impossible, 
the  Reminiscence  of  Royalty  rose  again,  "Let  us  take 
refuge  in  the  Past,  the  Future  is  not  possible  ! "  and  Major- 
General  Monk  crossed  the  Tweed  at  Coldstream,  with 
results  which  are  well  known. 

.  Results  which  we  will  not  quarrel  with,  very  mournful  as 
they  have  been  !  If  it  please  Heaven,  these  Two  Hundred 
Years  of  universal  Cant  in  Speech,  with  so  much  of  Cotton- 
spinning,  Coal-boring,  Commercing,  and  other  valuable  Sin- 
cerity of  Work  going  on  the  while,  shall  not  be  quite  lost  to 


78  THOMAS    CAELYLE. 

us !  Our  Cant  will  vanish,  our  whole  baleful  cunningly- 
compacted  Universe  of  Cant,  as  does  a  heavy  Nightmare 
Dream.  "We  shall  awaken ;  and  find  ourselves  in  a  world 
greatly  widened.  —  Why  Puritanism  could  not  continue  ? 
My  friend,  Puritanism  was  not  the  Complete  Theory  of  this 
immense  Universe ;  no,  only  a  part  thereof!  To  me  it 
seems,  in  my  hours  of  hope,  as  if  the  Destinies  meant  some- 
thing grander  with  England  than  even  Oliver  Protector  did ! 
We  will  not  quarrel  with  the  Destinies ;  we  will  work  as 
we  can  towards  fulfilment  of  them. 


DEATH    OF    THE    PROTECTOR. 

OLIVER'S  look  was  yet  strong ;  and  young  for  his  years, 
which  were  Fifty-nine  last  April  [1658].  The  "Three- 
score and  ten  years,"  the  Psalmist's  limit,  which  probably 
was  often  in  Oliver's  thoughts  and  in  those  of  others  there, 
might  have  been  anticipated  for  him :  Ten  years  more  of 
Life ;  —  which,  we  may  compute,  would  have  given  another 
History  to  all  the  Centuries  of  England.  But  it  was  not  to 
be  so,  it  was  to  be  otherwise.  Oliver's  health,  as  we  might 
observe,  was  but  uncertain  in  late  times ;  often  "  indisposed  " 
the  spring  before  last.  His  course  of  life  had  not  been 
favorable  to  health  !  "  A  burden  too  heavy  for  man  !  "  as 
he  himself,  with  a  sigh,  would  sometimes  say.  Incessant 
toil ;  inconceivable  labor,  of  head  and  heart  and  hand  ;  toil, 
peril,  and  sorrow  manifold,  continued  for  near  Twenty  years 
now,  had  done  their  part :  those  robust  life-energies,  it  after- 
ward appeared,  had  been  gradually  eaten  out.  Like  a  Tow- 
er strong  to  the  eye,  but  with  its  foundations  undermined ; 
which  has  not  long  to  stand ;  the  fall  of  which,  on  any  shock, 
may  be  sudden. 

The  Manzinis  and  Dues  de  Crequi,  with  their  splendors, 


CROMWELL.  79 

and  congratulations  about  Dunkirk,  interesting  to  the  street 
populations  and  general  public,  had  not  yet  withdrawn,  when 
at  Hampton  Court  there  had  begun  a  private  scene,  of 
much  deeper  and  quite  opposite  interest  there.  The  Lady 
Claypole,  Oliver's  favorite  Daughter,  a  favorite  of  all  the 
world,  had  fallen  sick  we  know  not  when ;  lay  sick  now,  — - 
to  death,  as  it  proved.  Her  disease  was  of  internal  female 
nature;  the  painfullest  and  most  harassing  to  mind  and 
sense,  it  is  understood,  that  falls  to  the  lot  of  a  human  crea- 
ture. Hampton  Court  we  can  fancy  once  more,  in  those 
July  days,  a  house  of  sorrow ;  pale  Death  knocking  there, 
as  at  the  door  of  the  meanest  hut.  "  She  had  great  suffer- 
ings, great  exercises  of  spirit ! "  Yes :  —  and  in  the  depths 
of  the  old  Centuries,  we  see  a  pale  anxious  Mother,  anxious 
Husband,  anxious  weeping  Sisters,  a  poor  young  Frances 
weeping  anew  in  her  weeds.  "  For  the  last  fourteen  days  " 
his  Highness  has  been  by  her  bedside  at  Hampton  Court, 
unable  to  attend  to  any  public  business  whatever.  Be  still, 
my  Child ;  trust  thou  yet  in  God :  in  the  waves  of  the  Dark 
River,  there  too  is  He  a  God  of  help !  —  On  the  6th  day  of 
August  she  lay  dead ;  at  rest  forever.  My  young,  my  beau- 
tiful, my  brave !  She  is  taken  from  me ;  I  am  left  bereaved 
of  her.  The  Lord  giveth,  and  the  Lord  taketh  away ; 
blessed  be  the  Name  of  the  Lord !  .  .  .  . 

In  the  same  dark  days  occurred  George  Fox's  third 
and  last  interview  with  Oliver George  dates  noth- 
ing; and  his  facts  everywhere  lie  round  him  like  the  leather- 
parings  of  his  old  shop  :  but  we  judge  it  may  have  been 
about  the  time  when  the  Manzinis  and  Dues  de  Crequi 
were  parading  in  their  gilt  coaches,  That  George  and  two 
Friends  "  going  out  of  Town,"  on  a  summer  day,  "  two  of 
Hacker's  men  "  had  met  them,  —  taken  them,  brought  them 
to  the  Mews.  "  Prisoners  there  a  while  " :  —  but  the  Lord's 
power  was  over  Hacker's  men;  they  had  to  let  us  go. 
Whereupon : 


80  THOMAS    CARLYLE. 

"The  same  day,  taking  boat  I  went  down"  (up)  "to 
Kingston,  and  from  thence  to  Hampton  Court,  to  speak 
with  the  Protector  about  the  Sufferings  of  Friends.  I  met 
him  riding  into  Hampton-Court  Park ;  and  before  I  came  to 
him  as  he  rode  at  the  head  of  his  Lifeguard,  I  saw  and  felt 

a  waft"  (whiff")  "of  death  go  forth  against  him." Or 

in  favor  of  him,  George  ?  His  life,  if  thou  knew  it,  has  not 
been  a  merry  thing  for  this  man,  now  or  heretofore  !  I  fancy 
he  has  been  looking,  this  long  while,  to  give  it  up,  when- 
ever the  Commander-in-chief  required.  To  quit  his  labori- 
ous sentry -post ;  honorably  lay  up  his  arms,  and  be  gone  to 
his  rest:  —  all  Eternity  to  rest  in,  O  George!  Was  thy 
own  life  merry,  for  example,  in  the  hollow  of  the  tree  ;  clad 
permanently  in  leather  ?  And  does  kingly  purple,  and  gov- 
erning refractory  worlds  instead  of  stitching  coarse  shoes, 
make  it  merrier  ?  The  waft  of  death  is  not  against  him  I 
think,  —  perhaps  against  thee,  and  me,  and  others,  O 
George,  when  the  Nell-Gwyn  Defender  and  Two  Centuries 
of  all-victorious  Cant  have  come  in  upon  us !  My  unfortu- 
nate George, "a  waft  of  death  go  forth  against  him; 

and  when  I  came  to  him,  he  looked  like  a  dead  man. 
After  I  had  laid  the  Sufferings  of  Friends  before  him,  and 
had  warned  him  accordingly  as  I  was  moved  to  speak  to 
him,  he  bade  me  come  to  his  house.  So  I  returned  to 
Kingston ;  and,  the  next  day,  went  up  to  Hampton  Court 
to  speak  farther  with  him.  But  when  I  came,  Harvey,  who 
was  one  that  waited  on  him,  told  me  the  Doctors  were  not 
willing  that  I  should  speak  with  him.  So  I  passed  away, 
and  never  saw  him  more." 

Friday,  the  20th  of  August,  1658,  this  was  probably  the 
day  on  which  George  Fox  saw  Oliver  riding  into  Hampton 
Park  with  his  Guards  for  the  last  time.  That  Friday,  as 
we  find,  his  Highness  seemed  much  better :  but  on  the  mor- 
row a  sad  change  had  taken  place ;  feverish  symptoms,  for 
which  the  Doctors  vigorously  prescribed  quiet.  Saturday 


CROMWELL.  81 

to  Tuesday  the  symptons  continued  ever  worsening :  a  kind 
of  tertian  ague,  "  bastard  tertian  "  as  the  old  Doctors  name 
it ;  for  which  it  was  ordered  that  his  Highness  should  return 
to  Whitehall,  as  to  a  more  favorable  air  in  that  complaint. 
On  Tuesday,  accordingly,  he  quitted  Hampton  Court;  — 
never  to  see  it  more. 

"  His  time  was  come,"  says  Harvey,  "  and  neither  prayers 
nor  tears  could  prevail  with  God  to  lengthen  out  his  life, 
and  continue  him  longer  to  us.  Prayers  abundantly  and 
incessantly  poured  out  on  his  behalf,  both  publicly  and  pri- 
vately, as  was  observed,  in  a  more  than  ordinary  way.  Be- 
sides many  a  secret  sigh,  —  secret  and  unheard  by  men,  yet 
like  the  cry  of  Moses,  more  loud,  and  strongly  laying  hold 
on  God,  than  many  spoken  supplications.  All  which,  —  the 
hearts  of  God's  People  being  thus  mightily  stirred  up, — 
did  seem  to  beget  confidence  in  some,  and  hopes  in  all ;  yea 
some  thoughts  in  himself,  that  God  would  restore  him." 

"  Prayers  public  and  private  "  :  i  hey  are  worth  imagining 
to  ourselves.  Meetings  of  Preachers,  Chaplains,  and  Godly 
Persons;  "Owen,  Goodwin,  Sterry,  with  a  company  of 
others  in  an  adjoining  room  " ;  in  Whitehall,  and  elsewhere 
over  religious  London  and  England,  fervent  outpourings  of 
many  a  loyal  heart.  For  there  were  hearts  to  whom  the 
nobleness  of  this  man  was  known ;  and  his  worth  to  the 
Puritan  Cause  was  evident.  Prayers,  —  strange  enough  to 
us ;  in  a  dialect  fallen  obsolete,  forgotten  now.  Authentic 
wrestlings  of  ancient  Human  Souls,  —  who  were  alive  then, 
with  their  affections,  awe-struck  pieties ;  with  their  Human 
Wishes,  risen  to  be  transcendent,  hoping  to  prevail  with  the 
Inexorable.  All  swallowed  now  in  the  depths  of  dark 
Time ;  which  is  full  of  such,  since  the  beginning !  Truly  it 
is  a  great  scene  of  World-History,  this  in  old  Whitehall : 
Oliver  Cromwell  drawing  nigh  to  his  end.  The  exit  of 
Oliver  Cromwell,  and  of  English  Puritanism;  a  great 
Light,  one  of  our  few  authentic  Solar  Luminaries,  going 

4*  F 


82  THOMAS   CAELYLE. 

down  now  amid  the  clouds  of  Death.  Like  the  setting  of  a 
great  victorious  summer  Sun  —  its  course  now  finished. 
"  So  stirbt  ein  Held"  says  Schiller  ;  "  So  dies  a  Hero  !  Sight 
worthy  to  be  worshipped  ! "  He  died,  this  Hero  Oliver,  in 
Resignation  to  God,  as  the  Brave  have  all  done.  "  We  could 
not  be  more  desirous  he  should  abide,"  says  the  pious 
Harvey,  "than  he  was  content  and  willing  to  be  gone."  The 
struggle  lasted,  amid  hope  and  fear,  for  ten  days 

On  Monday,  August  30th,  there  roared  and  howled  all 
day  a  mighty  storm  of  wind.  Ludlow,  coming  up  to  Town 
from  Essex,  could  not  start  in  the  morning  for  wind ;  tried 
it  in  the  afternoon ;  still  could  not  get  along,  in  his  coach, 
for  head-wind ;  had  to  stop  at  Epping.  On  the  morrow, 
Fleetwood  came  to  him  in  the  Protector's  name,  to  ask, 
What  he  wanted  here  ?  —  Nothing  of  public  concernment, 
only  to  see  my  mother-in-law  !  answered  the  solid  man.  For 
indeed  he  did  not  know  that  Oliver  was  dying ;  that  the  glo- 
rious hour  of  Disenthral  ment,  and  immortal  "  Liberty  "  to 
plunge  over  precipices  with  one's  self  and  one's  Cause,  was 
so  nigh !  —  It  came ;  and  he  took  the  precipices,  like  a 
strongboned  resolute  blind  ginhorse,  rejoicing  in  the  break- 
age of  its  halter,  in  a  very  gallant  constitutional  manner. 
Adieu,  my  solid  friend ;  if  I  go  to  Vevay,  I  will  read  thy 
Monument  there,  perhaps  not  without  emotion,  after  all ! 

It  was  on  this  stormy  Monday,  while  rocking-winds,  heard 
in  the  sick-room  and  everywhere,  were  piping  aloud,  that 
Thurloe  and  an  Official  person  entered  to  inquire,  Who,  in 
case  of  the  worst,  was  to  be  his  Highness's  Successor  ?  The 
Successor  is  named  in  a  sealed  Paper  already  drawn  up, 
above  a  year  ago,  at  Hampton  Court;  now  lying  in  such 
and  such  a  place.  The  Paper  was  sent  for,  searched  for ; 
it  could  never  be  found.  Richard's  is  the  name  understood 
to  have  been  written  in  that  Paper :  not  a  good  name ;  but 
in  fact  one  does  not  know.  In  ten  years'  time,  had  ten 
years  more  been  granted,  Richard  might  have  become  a 


CROMWELL.  83 

fitter  man;  might  have  been  cancelled,  if  palpably  unfit. 
Or  perhaps  it  was  Fleetwood's  name,  —  and  the  Paper  by 
certain  parties  was  stolen  ?  None  knows.  On  the  Thurs- 
day night  following,  "and  not  till  then,"  his  Highness  is 
understood  to  have  formally  named  "  Richard  ! "  —  or  per- 
haps it  might  only  be  some  heavy-laden  "  Yes,  yes ! "  spoken 
out  of  the  thick  death-slumbers,  in  answer  to  Thurloe's  ques- 
tion "  Richard  ?  "  The  thing  is  a  little  uncertain.  It  was, 
once  more,  a  matter  of  much  moment;  —  giving  color  prob- 
ably to  all  the  subsequent  Centuries  of  England,  this  an- 
swer !  .  .  .  . 

Thursday  night  the  writer  of  our  old  Pamphlet  was  him- 
self in  attendance  on  his  Highness ;  and  has  preserved  a 
trait  or  two  ;  with  which  let  us  hasten  to  conclude.  To-mor- 
row is  September  Third,  always  kept  as  a  Thanksgiving- 
day,  since  the  Victories  of  Dunbar  and  Worcester.  The 
wearied  one,  "  that  very  night  before  the  Lord  took  him  to 
his  everlasting  rest,"  was  heard  thus,  with  oppressed  voice, 
speaking :  — 

" '  Truly  God  is  good  ;  indeed,  He  is  ;  He  will  not  — ' 
then  his  speech  failed  him,  but,  as  I  apprehended,  it  was, 
'  He  will  not  leave  me.'  This  saying, '  God  is  good,'  he  fre- 
qnently  used  all  along ;  and  would  speak  it  with  much 
cheerfulness,  and  fervor  of  spirit,  in  the  midst  of  his  pains. 
Again  he  said:  <I  would  be  willing  to  live  to  be  farther 
serviceable  to  God  and  His  People :  but  my  work  is  done. 
Yet  God  will  be  with  His  People.' 

"  He  was  very  restless  most  part  of  the  night,  speaking 
often  to  himself.  And  there  being  something  to  drink 
offered  him,  he  was  desired  to  take  the  same,  and  endeavor 
to  sleep.  Unto  which  he  answered:  'It  is  not  my  desire 
to  drink  or  sleep ;  but  my  design  is,  to  make  what  haste  I 
can  to  be  gone.' 

"Afterwards,  towards  morning,  he  used  divers  holy  ex- 
pressions, implying  much  inward  consolation  and  peace ; 


84  THOMAS  CARLYLE. 

among  the  rest  he  spake  some  exceeding  self-debasing 
words,  annihilating  and  judging  himself.  And  truly  it  was 
observed,  that  a  public  spirit  to  God's  Cause  did  breathe  in 
him,  —  as  in  his  lifetime  so  now  to  his  very  last." 

When  the  morrow's  sun  rose,  Oliver  was  speechless ;  be- 
tween three  and  four  in  the  afternoon,  he  lay  dead.  Friday, 
3d  September,  1 658.  "  The  consternation  and  astonishment 
of  all  people,"  writes  Fauconberg,  "  are  inexpressible  ;  their 
hearts  seem  as  if  sunk  within  them.  My  poor  Wife,  —  I 
know  not  what  on  earth  to  do  with  her.  When  seemingly 
quieted,  she  bursts  out  again  into  a  passion  that  tears  her 
very  heart  to  pieces."  Husht,  poor  weeping  Mary  !  Here 
is  a  Life-battle  right  nobly  done.  Seest  thou  not, 

The  storm  is  changed  into  a  calm, 

At  His  command  and  will ; 
So  that  the  waves  which  raged  before, 

Now  quiet  are  and  still  I 

Then  are  they  glad,  —  because  at  rest 

And  quiet  now  they  be : 
So  to  the  haven  He  them  brings 

Which  they  desired  to  see. 

"  Blessed  are  the  dead  that  die  in  the  Lord  " ;  blessed  are 
the  valiant  that  have  lived  in  the  Lord.  "  Amen,  saith  the 
Spirit,"  Amen.  "  They  do  rest  from  their  labors,  and  their 
works  follow  them." 

"Their  works  follow  them."  As,  I  think,  this  Oliver 
Cromwell's  works  have  done,  and  are  still  doing  ?  We  have 
had  our  "  Revolutions  of  Eighty-eight,"  officially  called  "  glo- 
rious " ;  and  other  Revolutions  not  yet  called  glorious,  and 
somewhat  has  been  gained  for  poor  Mankind.  Men's  ears 
are  not  now  slit  off  by  rash  Officially ;  Officially  will,  for 
long  henceforth,  be  more  cautious  about  men's  ears.  The 
tyrannous  Star-chambers,  branding-irons,  chimerical  Kings 
and  Surplices  at  All-hallowtide,  they  are  gone,  or  with  im- 


CROMWELL.  85 

mense  velocity  going,  Oliver's  works  do  follow  him  !  —  The 
works  of  a  man,  bury  them  under  what  guano-mouutains  and 
obscene  owl-droppings  you  will,  do  not  perish,  cannot  perish. 
AVliat  of  Heroism,  what  of  Eternal  Light  was  in  a  Man 
and  his  Life,  is  with  very  great  exactness  added  to  the  Eter- 
nities, remains  forever  a  new  divine  portion  of  the  Sum  of 
Things ;  and  no  owl's  voice,  this  way  or  that,  in  the  least, 
avails  in  the  matter.  But  we  have  to  end  here. 

Oliver  is  gone ;  and  with  him  England's  Puritanism, 
laboriously  built  together  by  this  man,  and  made  a  thing 
far-shining  miraculous  to  its  own  Century,  and  memorable 
to  all  the  Centuries,  soon  goes.  Puritanism,  without  its 
King,  is  kingless,  anarchic;  falls  into  dislocation,  self-col- 
lision ;  staggers,  plunges  into  ever  deeper  anarchy ;  King, 
Defender  of  the  Puritan  Faith  there  can  none  now  be 
found ;  —  and  nothing  is  left  but  to  recall  the  old  disowned 
Defender  with  the  remnants  of  his  Four  Surplices,  and 
Two  Centuries  of  Hypocrisis  (or  Play-acting  not  so  called), 
and  put  up  with  all  that,  the  best  we  may.  The  Genius  of 
England  no  longer  soars  Sunward,  world-defiant  like  an 
Eagle  through  the  storms,  "  mewing  her  mighty  youth,"  as 
John  Milton  saw  her  do :  the  Genius  of  England,  much 
more  like  a  greedy  Ostrich  intent  on  provender  and  a 
whole  skin  mainly,  stands  with  its  other  extremity  Sunward 
with  its  Ostrich-head  stuck  into  the  readiest  bush  of  old 
Church-tippets,  King-cloaks,  or  what  other  "  sheltering  Fal- 
lacy "  there  may  be,  and  so  awaits  the  issue.  The  issue  has 
been  slow ;  but  it  is  now  seen  to  have  been  inevitable. 
No  Ostrich,  intent  on  gross  terrene  provender,  and  sticking 
its  head  into  Fallacies,  but  will  be  awakened  one  day,  — 

in  a  terrible  a  posteriori  mahner,  if  not  otherwise ! 

Awake  before  it  come  to  that !  God  and  man  bid  us  awake ! 
The  Voices  of  our  Fathers,  with  thousand-fold  stern  moni- 
tion to  one  and  all,  bid  us  awake. 


LITTLE  BELL. 

Br   T.  WESTWOOD. 

"  He  prayeth  well,  who  loveth  well 
Both  man  and  bird  and  beast." 

THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 

PIPED  the  Blackbird,  on  the  beechwood  spray, 
"  Pretty  maid,  slow  wandering  this  way, 

What 's  your  name  ?  "  quoth  he. 
"  What's  your  name  ?  Oh !  stop  and  straight  unfold, 
Pretty  maid,  with  showery  curls  of  gold." 
"  Little  Bell,"  said  she. 

Little  Bell  sat  down  beneath  the  rocks, 
Tossed  aside  her  gleaming,  golden  locks, 

"  Bonny  bird  ! "  quoth  she, 
"  Sing  me  your  best  song,  before  I  go." 
"  Here 's  the  very  finest  song,  I  know, 
Little  Bell,"  said  he. 

And  the  Blackbird  piped  —  you  never  heard 
Half  so  gay  a  song  from  any  bird ; 

Full  of  quips  and  wiles, 
Now  so  round  and  rich,  now  soft  and  slow, 
All  for  love  of  that  sweet  face  below, 

Dimpled  o'er  with  smiles. 

And  the  while  that  bonny  bird  did  pour 

His  full  heart  out,  freely,  o'er  and  o'er, 

'.Neath  the  morning  skies, 


LITTLE   BELL.  87 

In  the  little  childish  heart  below, 
•  All  the  sweetness  seemed  to  grow  and  grow, 
And  shine  forth  in  happy  overflow 

From  the  brown,  bright  eyes. 

Down  the  dell  she  tripped,  and  through  the  glade  — 
Peeped  the  squirrel  from  the  hazel  shade, 

And,  from  out  the  tree, 

Swung  and  leaped  and  frolicked,  void  of  fear, 
While  bold  Blackbird  piped,  that  all  might  hear, 

"  Little  Bell ! "  piped  he. 

Little  Bell  sat  down  amid  the  fern : 

"  Squirrel,  Squirrel !  to  your  task  return ; 

Bring  me  nuts  ! "  quoth  she. 
Up,  away !  the  frisky  Squirrel  hies, 
Golden  wood-lights  glancing  in  his  eyes, 

And  adown  the  tree, 

Great  ripe  nuts,  kissed  brown  by  July  sun, 
In  the  little  lap  drop,  one  by  one — 
Hark  !  how  Blackbird  pipes,  to  see  the  fun ! 

"  Happy  Bell ! "  pipes  he. 

Little  Bell  looked  up  and  down  the  glade : 
"  Squirrel,  Squirrel,  from  the  nut-tree  shade, 
Bonny  Blackbird,  if  you  're  not  afraid, 

Come  and  share  with  me  !  " 
Down  came  Squirrel,  eager  for  his  fare, 
Down  came  bonny  Blackbird,  I  declare  ; 
Little  Bell  gave  each  his  honest  share  — 

Ah !  the  merry  three ! 

And  the  while  those  frolic  playmates  twain 
Piped  and  frisked  from  bough  to  bough  again, 
'Neath  the  morning  skies, 


88  T.  WESTWOOD. 

In  the  little  childish  heart  below, 

All  the  sweetness  seemed  to  grow  and  grow, 

And  shine  out  in  happy  overflow, 

From  her  brown,  bright  eyes. 

By  her  snow-white  cot,  at  close  of  day, 
Knelt  sweet  Bell,  with  folded  palms,  to  pray. 

Very  calm  and  clear 

Rose  the  praying  voice,  to  where,  unseen, 
In  blue  heaven,  an  angel  shape  serene 

Paused  awhile  to  hear. 

"  What  good  child  is  this,"  the  angel  said, 
"  That,  with  happy  heart,  beside  her  bed, 

Prays  so  lovingly  ?  " 
Low  and  soft,  oh !  very  low  and  soft, 
Crooned  the  Blackbird  in  the  orchard  croft, 

"  Bell,  dear  Bell ! "  crooned  he. 

"  Whom  God's  creatures  love,"  the  angel  fair 
Murmured,  "  God  doth  bless  with  angels'  care ; 

Child,  thy  bed  shall  be 

Folded  safe  from  harm ;  love,  deep  and  kind, 
Shall  watch  round  and  leave  good  gifts  behind, 

Little  Bell,  for  thee." 


THE  MORMON'S  WIFE. 

BY  ROSE   TERRY. 

" '  Woe  to  that  man,'  his  warning  voice  replied 
To  all  who  questioned,  or  in  silence  sighed  — 
'  Woe  to  that  man  who  ventures  truth  to  win, 
And  seeks  his  object  by  the  path  of  sin  ! ' "  — 

SCHILLER. 

«T  DON'T  think  much,  my  young  friend,  of  those  Mor- 
•    mons  !    I  have  had  some  reasons  of  my  own  for  dislik- 
ing them ! "  said  Parson  Field  to  me,  as  we  sat  together,  one 
August  noon,  in  the  porch  of  his  red  house  at  Plainfield. 

"  Do  tell  me,  sir,"  said  I,  settling  myself  in  an  easy  atti- 
tude to  hear  his  story  —  for  a  story  from  Parson  Field  was 
not  to  be  despised  —  his  quaint  simplicity  bringing  out,  in 
old-time  and  expressive  phrases,  whatever  he  describes  with 
the  clear  fidelity  of  an  interior  by  Mieris.  "  Do  tell  me," 
said  I  again,  with  a  deeper  emphasis ;  whereat  the  old  gen- 
tleman looked  at  me  over  his  spectacles,  and,  smiling  benig- 
nantly  into  my  eager  face,  began. 

"  When  I  first  came  to  Plainfield,"  said  he,  "  more  than 
thirty  years  ago,  I  had  been  a  minister  of  the  Lord  only  ten 
years,  and  I  had  been  settled  for  that  period  of  time  in  a 
large  city,  where  I  served  acceptably  to  a  worthy  congre- 
gation ;  but  certain  reasons  of  my  own  induced  me  to  leave 
that  situation,  and  come  here  to  live,  where  also  I  found 
acceptance,  and  not  many  months  after  I  came  there  was  a 
considerable  reviving  of  the  work  in  this  place,  and  many 
believed.  Of  these  was  a  certain  Joseph  Frazer,  a  young 


90  ROSE    TERRY. 

Scotchman,  concerning  whom  I  felt  much  misgiving,  lest  he 
should  take  the  wrong  path ;  but  he,  in  due  season,  joined 
himself  to  the  church,  and  edified  the  brethren  in  walk  and 
conversation ;  so  that,  when  he  left  Plainfield  and  settled  in 
the  West  Indies,  we  were  loth  to  have  him  go. 

"  Some  years  afterwards  we  heard  he  was  married  there 
to  a  lady  of  Spanish  extraction,  and  a  Catholic ;  and,  after 
ten  years  elapsed,  she  died,  leaving  him  one  child,  a  daugh- 
ter, eight  years  of  age,  and  with  her  he  came  to  Plainfield, 
desiring  that  the  child,  whom  he  had  named  Adeline,  after 
his  own  mother,  should  have  a  New  England  training. 

"  But,  wonderful  are  the  ways  of  Providence  !  On  his  re- 
turn to  Cuba,  he  perished  in  the  vessel,  which  went  down 
in  a  heavy  gale  off  Cape  Hatteras ;  and  when  the  news 
came  to  his  mother,  old  Mrs.  Frazer,  she  sent  for  me  that  I 
should  tell  the  child  Adeline,  for  she  had  given  proofs  of  a 
singular  nature,  ardent  and  self-confident  in  the  extreme. 
I  took  my  hat,  and  went  over  to  Mrs.  Frazer's,  with  a  very 
heavy  heart,  for  the  grief  of  a  child  is  a  fearful  thing  to  me, 
and  to  be  the  bringer  of  evil  tidings,  that  shall  stain  the 
pureness  and  calm  of  a  child's  thoughts  with  the  irreparable 
shadow  of  death,  is  no  light  thing,  nor  easily  to  be  done.  I 
entered  into  the  house  one  day  in  June :  it  was  a  very  sweet 
day,  and,  as  I  walked  quietly  into  the  low  kitchen,  I  saw 
Adeline,  with  her  head  resting  on  her  hands,  and  her  large 
eyes  eagerly  gazing  out  of  the  window  at  the  gambols  of  a 
scarlet-throated  humming-bird.  I  went  close  to  her,  and 
thought  to  myself  that  I  would  speak,  but  I  did  not,  for  I 
saw  that,  in  her  little  pale  face,  which  made  me  more  sad 
than  before ;  and  I  had  it  on  my  lips  to  say,  '  Adeline,  are 
you  homesick  ? '  (which  was  the  thing  of  all  others  I  should 
not  say)  when  suddenly  she  turned  about,  and  answered  the 
question  before  I  spoke  it. 

" '  Sir,'  said  she,  '  I  wish  I  was  in  Cuba.  I  had  just  such 
a  humming-bird  at  home ;  and  I  fed  it  with  orange  boughs 


THE  MORMON'S   WIFE.  91 

full  of  white  flowers,  every  day ;  but  you  have  no  orange 
trees  here,  and  I  have  no  papa ! ' 

"  It  seemed  to  me  that  the  child's  angel  had  thus  opened 
the  way  for  me  to  speak,  and  I  began  to  say  some  things 
about  the  love  of  our  universal  Father,  when  she  laid  her 
little  hand  on  my  arm  with  a  fearfully  strong  pressure. 
'  Mr.  Field,'  said  she,  '  is  my  papa  dead  ! '  I  never  shall 
forget  the  eyes  that  looked  that  question  into  mine.  I  felt 
like  an  unveiled  spirit  before  their  eager,  piercing  stare.  I 
did  not  answer  except  by  a  strong  quiver  of  feeling  that 
would  run  over  my  features,  for  I  loved  her  father  even  as 
a  kinsman,  and  I  needed  to  say  nothing  more,  for  the  child 
fell  at  my  feet  quite  rigid,  and  I  called  Mrs.  Frazer,  who 
tried  all  her  nurse-arts  to  restore  little  Adeline ;  but  was 
forced,  at  last,  to  send  for  a  physician,  who  bled  the  child, 
and  -brought  her  round. 

"  In  the  mean  time  I  had  gone  home  to  prepare  my  ser- 
mon, for  it  was  not  yet  finished,  and  the  day  was  Friday ; 
but  I  kept  seeing  that  little  lifeless  face,  all  orphaned  as  it 
was,  and  the  Scripture,  '  As  one  whom  his  mother  comfort- 
eth,'  was  so  borne  in  upon  my  mind,  that,  although  I  had 
previously  fixed  upon  one  adapted  to  a  setting  forth  of  the 
doctrine  of  election,  I  was  wrought  upon  to  make  the  other 
the  subject  of  my  discourse:  and  truly  the  people  wept; 
almost  all  but  Adeline,  who  sat  in  the  square  pew  with  her 
great  eyes  fixed  upon  me,  and  her  small  lips  apart,  like  one 
who  drinks  from  the  stream  of  a  rock. 

"  The  next  day  I  was  resting,  as  my  custom  is,  after  the 
Sabbath ;  and  in  a  warm,  fair  day,  I  find  no  better  rest  than 
to  sit  by  the  open  window,  and  breathe  the  summer  air,  and 
fill  my  eyes  and  heart  with  the  innumerable  love-tokens  that 
God  hath  set  thickly  in  Nature.  I  was,  therefore,  at  my 
usual  place,  wrapt  in  thought,  and  beholding  the  labors  of  a 
small  bird  which  taught  her  young  to  fly,  when  I  felt  a 
light,  cold  touch,  and,  turning,  saw  little  Adeline  beside  me. 


92  ROSE   TERRY. 

'  Sir,'  said  she,  without  any  preface,  '  when  my  papa  went 
away,  he  left  with  me  a  letter,  which  he  said  I  was  to  give 
you  if  he  died.'  So  far  she  spoke  steadily,  but  there  the 
small  voice  quivered,  and  broke  down.  I  took  the  letter 
she  proffered  me,  and,  breaking  the  seal,  found  it  a  short 
but  touching  appeal  to  me,  as  the  spiritual  father  of  Joseph 
Frazer,  to  take  his  own  child  under  my  care,  and  be  as  a 
father  to  her,  inasmuch  as  his  mother  was  old  and  feeble, 
and  also  to  be  executor  of  his  will,  of  which  a  copy  was  en- 
closed. I  said  this  much  to  the  child  as  shortly  as  I  could, 
and  with  her  grave  voice  she  replied,  '  Sir,  I  should  like  to 
be  your  little  girl,  if  you  will  preach  me  some  more  ser- 
mons.' Now  I  was  affected  at  this  answer ;  not  the  less 
that  the  leaven  of  pride,  which  worketh  in  every  man,  was 
fed  by  even  a  baby's  praise ;  and,  putting  on  my  hat,  I 
walked  over  to  Mrs.  Frazer's  house  and  laid  the  matter  be- 
fore her.  She  was  not,  at  first,  willing  to  give  Adeline  up, 
but  at  length,  after  much  converse  to  and  fro,  she  came  to 
my  conclusion,  that  the  child  would  be  better  in  my  hands, 
inasmuch  as  she  herself  could  not  hope  for  a  long  continu- 
ance :  and  as  it  was  ordered,  she  died  the  next  summer.  I 
sent  for  my  sister  Martha,  who  was  somewhat  past  mar- 
riageable years,  but  kind  and  good,  to  come  and  keep  house 
for  me,  and  from  that  time  Adeline  was  as  my  own  child. 
But  I  must  hasten  over  a  time,  for  I  am  too  long  in  telling 
this. 

"  In  course  of  years  the  child  grew  up,  tall  and  slender, 
of  a  very  stately  carriage,  and  having  that  Scriptural  glory 
of  a  woman,  long  and  abundant  hair. 

u  She  was  still  very  fervid  in  her  feelings,  but  reserved 
and  proud,  and  I  fear  I  had  been  too  tender  with  her  for 
her  good,  inasmuch  as  she  thought  her  own  will  and  pleasure 
must  always  be  fulfilled ;  and  we  all  know  that  is  not  one  of 
the  ordinations  of  Providence. 

"  As  Adeline  came  to  be  a  woman,  divers  youths  of  my 


THE  MORMON'S   WIFE.  93 

congregation  were  given  to  call  of  a  Sabbath  night,  with 
red  apples  for  me,  and  redder  cheeks  for  Adeline,  who  wag 
scarcely  civil  to  them,  and  often  left  them  to  my  conversa- 
tion, which  they  seemed  not  to  relish  so  much  as  would 
have  been  pleasing  to  human  nature. 

"  But  my  sainted  mother,  who  was  not  wanting  in  the 
wisdom  of  this  world,  was  used  to  say  that  every  man  and 
woman  had  their  time  of  crying  for  the  moon,  and  while 
some  knew  it  to  be  a  burning  fire,  and  others  scornfully 
called  it  cheese,  and  if  they  got  it,  either  burned  their  fin- 
gers, or  despised  their  desire,  still  all  generations  must  have 
their  turn,  and  truly  I  believed  it,  when  I  found  that  Ade- 
line herself  began  to  have  a  pining  for  something  which  I 
could  not  persuade  her  to  specify.  The  child  grew  thin  and 
pale,  and  ceased  the  singing  of  psalms  at  her  daily  task,  and 
I  could  not  devise  what  should  be  done  for  her;  though 
Martha  strongly  recommended  certain  herb  teas,  which  Ade- 
line somewhat  unreasonably  rebelled  against.  However, 
about  this  time,  my  attention  was  a  little  turned  from  her, 
as  there  was  much  religious  awakening  in  the  place,  and 
among  others,  whom  the  deacons  singled  out  as  special  ob- 
jects of  attention,  was  one  John  Henderson,  a  frequent  vis- 
itor at  our  house,  and  a  young  man  of  good  parts  and  kindly 
feeling,  as  it  seemed,  but  of  a  peculiar  nature,  being  easily 
led  into  either  right  or  wrong,  yet  still  given  to  fits  of  stub- 
bornness, when  he  could  not  be  drawn,  so  to  speak,  with  a 
cart-rope. 

"  Now  Adeline  had  been  a  professor  of  religion  for  some 
years,  but  it  did  not  seem  to  me  that  she  took  a  right  view 
of  this  particular  season,  for  many  times  she  refused  to  go 
to  the  prayer-meetings,  even  to  those  which  were  held  with 
special  intentions  towards  the  unconverted ;  and  many  times, 
on  my  return,  I  found  her  with  pale  cheeks  and  red  eyes, 
evidently  from  tears.  About  this  time,  also,  she  began  to 
take  long,  solitary  walks,  from  which  she  returned  with  her 


94  ROSE   TERRY. 

hands  full  of  wild  flowers,  for  it  was  now  early  spring ;  but 
she  cared  nothing  for  the  "flowers,  and  would  scatter  them 
about  the  house  to  fade,  without  a  thought.  In  the  mean 
time,  the  revival  progressed,  but,  I  lament  to  say,  with  no 
visible  change  in  John  Henderson.  He  had  gotten  into  one 
of  his  stubborn  moods  of  mind,  and  neither  heaven  nor  hell 
seemed  to  affect  him.  The  only  softening  I  could  perceive 
in  the  young  man  was  during  the  singing  of  hymns,  which 
was  well  done  in  our  meeting-house,  for  Adeline  led  the 
choir,  and  I  noticed  that,  whenever  that  part  of  the  exercises 
began,  John  Henderson  would  lift  up  his  head,  and  a  strange 
color  and  tender  expression  seemed  to  melt  the  hard  lines 
of  his  face. 

"  Somewhere  about  the  latter  end  of  April,  as  I  was  re- 
turning from  a  visit  to  a  sick  man,  I  met  John  coming  from 
a  piece  of  woods,  that  lay  behind  my  house  about  a  mile, 
with  his  hands  full  of  liverwort  blossoms.  I  do  not  know 
why  this  little  circumstance  gave  me  comfort,  yet,  I  have 
ever  observed,  that  a  man  who  loves  the  manifestations  of 
God  in  his  works  is  more  likely  to  be  led  into  religion  than 
a  brutal  or  a  mere  business  man :  so  1  was  desirous  of 
speaking  to  the  youth,  but  when  he  saw  me  he  turned  from 
the  straight  path,  and,  like  an  evil-doer,  fled  across  the 
fields  another  way.  I  did  not  call  after  him,  for  some  ex- 
perience has  constrained  me  to  think  that  there  is  no  little 
wisdom  in  sometimes  letting  people  alone,  but  I  took  my 
own  way  home,  and  having  put  on  my  cloth  shoes  to  ease 
my  feet,  and  being  in  somewhat  of  a  maze  of  thought,  I 
went  up  to  my  study,  as  it  seemed,  very  quietly,  for  I  en- 
tered at  the  open  door  and  found  Adeline  sitting  in  my  arm- 
chair by  the  window,  quite  unaware  of  my  nearness.  I 
well  remember  how  like  a  spirit  she  looked  that  day,  with 
her  great  eyes  raised  to  a  cloud  that  rested  in  the  bright 
sky,  her  soft  black  hair  twisted  into  a  crown  about  her 
head,  and  her  light  dress  falling  all  over  the  chair,  while  in 


THE  MORMON'S    WIFE.  95 

her  hands,  lying  between  the  slight  fingers,  and  by  the  bluer 
veins,  was  clasped  a  bunch  of  liverwort  blossoms.  Then  I 
perceived,  for  the  first  time,  why  my  child  was  crying  for  the 
moon,  and  that  John  Henderson  cared  for  the  singing  and 
not  for  the  hymns,  at  which  I  sorrowed.  But  I  sat  down 
by  Ada,  and  taking  the  flowers  out  of  her  cold  hands,  began 
to  sav  that  I  had  met  John  Henderson  on  the  road  with 

*/ 

some  such  blos>oms,  at  which  she  looked  at  me  even  as  she 
did  when  I  told  her  about  her  father,  and,  seeing  that  I 
smiled,  and  yet  was  not  dry-eyed,  nor  quite  at  rest,  the  tears 
began,  slowly,  to  run  over  her  eyelashes,  and  in  a  few  very 
resolute  words,  she  told  me  that  Mr.  Henderson  had  asked 
her  that  morning  to  marry  him. 

"  Xow  I  knew  not  well  what  to  say,  but  I  set  myself 
aside,  as  far  as  I  could,  and  tried  not  to  remember  how  sore 
a  trial  it  would  be  to  part  with  Ada,  and  I  reasoned  with 
her  calmly  about  the  youth,  setting  forth,  first,  that  he  was 
not  a  professing  Christian,  and  that  the  Scripture  seemed 
plain  to  me  on  that  matter,  though  I  would  not  constrain 
her  conscience  if  she  found  it  clear  in  this  thing ;  and,  sec- 
ond, that  he  was  a  man  who  held  fast  to  this  world's  goods, 
and  was  like  to  be  a  follower  of  Mammon  if  he  learned  not 
to  love  better  things  in  his  youth ;  and,  third,  that  he  was  a 
man  who  had,  as  one  might  say,  a  streak  of  granite  in  his 
nature,  against  which  a  feeling  person  would  continually  fall 
and  be  hurt,  and  which  no  person  could  work  upon,  if  once 
it  came  in  the  way  even  of  right  action.  To  all  this  Ade- 
line answered  with  more  reason  than  I  supposed  a  woman 
could,  only  that  I  noticed,  at  the  end  of  each  answer,  she 
said  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  it  were  the  end  of  all  contention,  — 
'  and  I  love  him.'  Whereby,  seeing  that  the  thing  was  well 
past  my  interference,  I  gave  my  consent  with  many  doubts 
and  fears  in  my  heart,  and,  having  blessed  the  child,  I  sent 
her  away  that  I  might  meditate  over  this  matter. 

"When  John  came  in  the  evening  for  his  answer,  I  was 


96  ROSE   TERRY. 

enabled  to  exhort  him  faithfully,  and,  in  his  softened  state  of 
feeling,  he  chose  to  tell  me  that  he  had  been  seeking  relig- 
ion because  he  feared  I  would  not  give  him  Adeline  unless 
he  were  joined  to  the  church,  and  he  could  not  make  a  hyp- 
ocrite of  himself,  even  for  that,  but  he  had  hoped  that  in  the 
use  of  means  he  might  be  awakened  and  converted.  At 
this  I  was  pleased,  inasmuch  as  it  showed  a  spirit  of  truth 
in  the  young  man,  but  I  could  not  avoid  setting  before  him 
that  self-seeking  had  never  led  any  soul  to  God,  and  how 
cogent  a  reason  he  had  himself  given  for  his  want  of  success 
in  things  pertaining  to  his  salvation ;  but  as  I  spoke  Ada 
came  in  by  the  other  door,  and  John's  eyes  began  to  wander 
so  visibly,  that  I  thought  it  best  to  conclude,  and  I  must  say 
he  appeared  grateful.  So  I  went  out  of  the  door,  leaving 
Ada  stately  and  blushing  as  a  fair  rose-tree,  notwithstanding 
that  John  Henderson  seemed  to  fancy  she  needed  his  sup- 
port. 

"  As  the  year  went  on,  and  I  could  not  in  conscience  let 
Adeline  leave  me  until  her  lover  had  some  fixed  mainte- 
nance, I  had  many  conversations  with  him,  (for  he  also  was 
an  orphan,)  and  it  was  at  length  decided  that  he  should  buy, 
with  Ada's  portion,  a  goodly  farm  in  Western  New  York ; 
and  in  the  ensuing  summer,  after  a  year's  engagement,  they 
were  to  marry.  So  the  summer  came ;  I  know  not  exactly 
what  month  was  fixed  for  their  marriage,  though  I  have  the 
date  somewhere,  but  one  thing  I  recollect,  that  the  hop-vine 
over  this  porch  was  in  full  bloom,  and  after  I  had  joined  my 
child  and  the  youth  in  the  bands  of  wedlock,  I  went  out  into 
the  porch  to  see  them  safe  into  the  carriage  that  was  to  take 
them  to  the  boat,  and  there  Ada  put  her  arms  about  my 
neck,  and  kissed  me  for  good-by,  leaving  a  hot  tear  upon  my 
cheek;  and  a  south  wind  at  that  moment  smote  the  hop- 
vine  so  that  its  odor  of  honey  and  bitterness  mingled  swept 
across  my  face,  and  always  afterward  this  scent  made  me 
think  of  Adeline.  After  two  years  had  passed  away,  during 


THE   MORMON'S   WIFE.  97 

which  we  heard  from  her  often,  we  heard  that  she  had  a 
little  daughter  born,  and  her  letters  were  full  of  joy  and 
pride,  so  that  I  trembled  for  the  child's  spiritual  state ;  but 
after  some  three  years  the  little  girl  with  her  mother  came 
to  Plainfield,  and  I  did  not  know  but  Adeline  was  excusa- 
ble in  her  joy,  for  such  a  fair  and  bright  child  was  scarcely 
ever  seen;  but  the  next  summer  came  sad  news:  little 
Nelly  was  dead,  and  Ada's  grief  seemed  inexhaustible, 
while  her  husband  fell  into  one  of  his  sullen  states  of  mind, 
and  the  affliction  passed  over  them  to  no  good  end,  as  it 
seemed. 

"  Soon  after  this,  the  Mormon  delusion  began  to  spread 
rapidly  about  John  Henderson's  dwelling-place,  and  in  less 
than  a  year  after  Nelly's  death  I  had  a  letter  from  Ada, 
dated  at  St.  Louis,  which  I  will  read  to  you,  for  I  have  it 
in  my  pocket-book,  having  retained  it  there  since  yesterday, 
when  I  took  it  out  from  the  desk  to  consult  a  date. 

"  It  begins :  — '  Dear  Uncle,'  (I  had  always  instructed 
the  child  so  to  call  me,  rather  than  father,  seeing  we  can 
have  but  one  father,  while  we  may  be  blessed  with  nume- 
rous uncles)  '  I  suppose  you  will  wonder  how  I  came  to  be 
at  St.  Louis,  and  it  is  just  my  being  here  that  I  write  to 
explain.  You  know  how  my  husband  felt  about  Nelly's 
death,  but  you  cannot  know  how  I  felt ;  for,  even  in  my 
very  great  sorrow,  I  hoped  all  the  time,  that  by  her  death, 
John  might  be  led  to  a  love  of  religion.  He  was  very  un- 
happy, but  he  would  not  show  it,  only  that  he  took  even 
more  tender  care  of  me  than  before.  I  have  always  been 
his  darling  and  pride ;  he  never  let  me  work,  because  he 
said  it  spoiled  my  hands ;  but  after  Nelly  died,  he  was 
hardly  willing  I  should  breathe  ;  and  though  he  never  spoke 
of  her,  or  seemed  to  feel  her  loss,  yet  I  have  heard  him 
whisper  her  name  in  his  sleep,  and  every  morning  his  hair 
and  pillow  were  damp  with  crying ;  but  he  never  knew  I 
saw  it.  After  a  few  months,  there  came  a  Mormon  preacher 
5  o 


98  KOSE   TERRY. 

into  our  neighborhood,  a  man  of  a  great  deal  of  talent 
and  earnestness,  and  a  firm  believer  in  the  revelation  to 
Joseph  Smith.  At  first  my  husband  did  not  take  any 
notice  of  him,  and  then  he  laughed  at  him  for  being  a  be- 
liever in  what  seemed  like  nonsense ;  but  one  night  he  was 
persuaded  to  go  and  hear  Brother  Marvin  preach  in  the 
school-house,  and  he  came  home  with  a  very  sober  face.  I 
said  nothing,  but  when  I  found  there  was  to  be  a  meeting 
the  next  night,  I  asked  to  go  with  him,  and,  to  my  surprise, 
I  heard  a  most  powerful  and  exciting  discourse,  not  wanting 
in  either  sense  or  feeling,  though  rather  poor  as  to  argu- 
ment; but  I  was  not  surprised  that  John  wanted  to  hear 
more,  nor  that,  in  the  course  of  a  few  weeks,  he  avowed 
himself  a  Mormon,  and  was  received  publicly  into  the  sect. 
Dear  Uncle,  you  will  be  shocked,  I  know,  and  you  will  won- 
der why  I  did  not  use  my  influence  over  my  husband,  to 
keep  him  from  this  delusion ;  but  you  do  not  know  how 
much  I  have  longed  and  prayed  for  his  conversion  to  a  re- 
ligious life ;  until  any  religion,  even  one  full  of  errors, 
seemed  to  me  better  than  the  hardened  and  listless  state  of 
his  mind. 

" '  I  could  not  but  feel,  that  if  he  were  awakened  to  a 
sense  of  the  life  to  come,  in  any  way,  his  own  good  sense 
would  lead  him  right  in  the  end ;  and  there  is  so  much  ar- 
dor and  faith  about  this  strange  belief,  that  I  do  not  regret 
his  having  fallen  hi  with  it,  for  I  think  the  true  burning  of 
Gospel  faith  will  yet  be  kindled  by  means  of  this  strange  fire. 
In  the  mean  time  he  is  very  eager  and  full  of  zeal  for  the 
cause,  so  much  so,  that  thinking  it  to  be  his  duty,  he  resolved 
to  sell  our  farm  at  Oakwood,  and  remove  to  Utah.  If  any- 
thing could  make  me  grieve  over  a  change,  I  believe  to  be 
for  John's  spiritual  good,  it  would  be  this  idea :  but  no  re- 
gret or  sorrow  of  mine  shall  ever  stand  in  the  way  of  his 
soul ;  so  I  gave  as  cheerful  a  consent  as  I  could  to  the  sale, 
and  I  only  cried  a  few  tears,  over  little  Nelly's  bed,  under 


THE    MORMON'S   WIFE.  99 

the  great  tulip-tree.  There  my  husband  has  put  an  iron 
railing,  and  I  have  planted  a  great  many  sweet-brier  vines 
over  the  rock  ;  and  Mr.  Keeney,  who  bought  the  farm,  has 
promised  that  the  spot  shall  be  kept  free  from  weeds,  so  I 
leave  her  in  peace.  Do  write  to  me,  Uncle  Field.  I  feel 
sure  I  have  done  right,  because  it  has  not  been  in  my  own 
way,  yet  sometimes  I  am  almost  afraid.  I  shall  be  very 
far  away  from  yoti,  and  from  home,  and  my  child ;  but  I 
am  so  glad  now  she  is  in  heaven,  nothing  can  trouble  her, 
and  I  shall  not  much  care  about  myself,  if  John  goes  right. 
" '  Give  my  love  to  Aunt  Martha,  and  please  write  to 
your  dear  child. 

" '  ADA  HENDERSON.  " 

"  I  need  not  say,  my  young  friend,"  resumed  Parson 
Field,  wiping  his  spectacles,  and  clearing  his  voice  with  a 
vigorous  ahem  ! !  "  that  I  could  not,  in  conscience,  approve 
of  Adeline's  course.  '  Thou  shalt  not  do  evil  that  good  may 
come,'  is  a  Gospel  truth,  and  cannot  be  transgressed  with 
good  consequences.  I  did  write  to  Ada;  but,  inasmuch  as 
the  act  was  done,  I  said  not  much  concerning  it,  but  bade 
her  take  courage,  seeing  that  she  had  meant  to  do  right, 
although  in  the  deed  she  had  considered  John  Henderson 
before  anything  else,  which  was,  as  you  may  perceive,  her 
besetting  sin,  and  therefore  it  seemed  good  to  me  to  put,  at 
the  end  of  my  epistle,  (as  I  was  wont  always  to  offer  a  suit- 
able text  of  Scripture  for  her  meditation,)  these  words, 
'  Little  children,  keep  yourselves  from  idols ! '  I  did  not 
hear  again  from  Adeline,  till  she  had  been  two  months  in 
the  Mormon  city,  and  though  she  tried  her  best  to  seem 
contented  and  peaceful,  in  view  of  John's  new  zeal,  and  his 
tender  care  of  her,  still  I  could  not  but  think  of  the  hop- 
blossoms,  for  I  perceived,  underneath  this  present  sweet- 
ness, a  little  drop  of  life  and  pain  working  to  some  unseen 
end.  That  year  passed  away  and  we  heard  no  more,  and 


100  ROSE  TERRY. 

the  next  also,  at  which  I  wondered  much;  but,  reflecting 
on  the  chances  of  travel  across  those  deserts,  and  having  a 
surety  of  Ada's  affection  for  me,  I  did  not  repine,  though  I 
felt  some  regret  that  there  was  such  uncertainty  of  carriage ; 
nevertheless,  I  wrote  as  usual,  that  no  chance  might  be  lost. 
"  The  third  summer  was  unusually  warm  in  our  parts,  and 
its  heats  following  upon  a  long,  wet  spring,  caused  much  and 
grievous  sickness,  and  I  was  obliged  to  be  out  at  all  hours 
with  the  dying,  and  at  funerals,  so  that  my  bodily  strength 
was  wellnigh  exhausted,  and  at  haying-time,  just  as  I  was 
cutting  the  last  swarth  on  my  river  meadow,  which  is  low- 
lying  land,  and  steamed  with  hot  vapor  as  I  laid  it  bare  to 
the  sun,  I  fell  forward  across  my  scythe-snath  and  fainted. 
This  was  the  beginning  of  a  long  course  of  fever,  of  a  ty- 
phoid character,  during  which  I  was  either  stupid  or  deliri- 
ous most  of  the  time,  and,  while  I  lay  sick,  there  came  a 
letter  to  me,  from  Salt  Lake  city,  written  chiefly  by  John 
Henderson,  who  begged  me  to  come  on  if  it  was  a  possible 
thing  and  see  his  wife,  who  was  wasting  with  a  slow  con- 
sumption, and  much  bent  upon  seeing  me.  I  could  discern 
that  the  letter  was  not  willingly  written ;  it  was  stiff  in 
speech,  though  writ  with  a  trembling  hand.  At  the  end  of 
it  were  a  few  lines  from  Ada  herself;  a  very  impatient  and 
absolute  cry  for  me,  as  if  she  could  not  die  till  I  came. 
Now  Martha  had  opened  this  letter,  as  she  was  forced  to  by 
my  great  illness,  and,  having  read  it,  asked  the  doctor  if  it 
was  well  to  propound  the  contents  to  me,  and  he  said  decid- 
edly that  he  could  not  answer  for  my  life  if  she  did:  so 
Martha,  like  a  considerate  woman,  wrote  an  answer  herself 
to  John  Henderson  (of  which  she  kept  a  copy  for  me  to 
see),  setting  forth  that  I  was  in  no  state  to  be  moved  with 
such  tidings ;  that,  however,  I  should  have  the  letter  as 
soon  as  the  doctor  saw  fit,  and  sending  her  love  and  sym- 
pathy to  Ada,  and  a  recommend  that  she  should  try  balm 
tea. 


THE   MORMON'S   WIFE.  101 

"After  a  long  season  of  suspense,  I  was  graciously  up- 
lifted from  fever,  and  enabled  to  leave  my  bed  for  a  few 
hours  daily ;  and,  when  I  could  ride  out,  which  was  only 
by  the  latter  end  of  October,  I  was  given  the  child's  letter, 
and  my  heart  sank  within  me,  for  I  knew  how  bitterly  she 
nad  needed  my  strength  to  help  her.  It  was  a  warm  au- 
tumn day,  near  to  noon,  when  I  read  that  letter,  and,  as  I 
leaned  back  in  my  chair,  the  red  sunshine  came  in  upon  me, 
and  the  smell  of  dead  leaves,  while  upon  the  hop-vine  one 
late  blossom,  spared  by  the  white  frosts,  and  dropping  across 
the  window,  also  put  forth  its  scent,  bringing  Adeline,  as  it 
were,  right  back  into  my  arms,  and  the  faintness  passed 
away  from  me  with  some  tears,  for  I  was  weak,  and  a  man 
may  not  always  be  stronger  than  his  nature.  Now,  when 
Martha  sounded  the  horn  for  dinner,  and  our  hired  man 
came  in  from  the  hill-lot,  where  he  was  sowing  wheat,  I  saw 
that  he  had  a  letter  in  his  hand  of  great  size  and  thickness ; 
and,  coming  into  the  keeping-room  where  I  sat,  he  said  that 
Squire  White  had  brought  it  over  from  the  Post-office  as  he 
came  along,  thinking  I  would  like  to  have  it  directly.  I 
was  rather  loth  to  open  the  great  packet  at  first,  for  I  be- 
thought myself  it  was  likely  to  be  some  Consociation  pro- 
ceedings, which  were  never  otherwise  than  irksome  to  me, 
and  were  now  weary  to  think  of,  seeing  the  grasshopper 
had  become  a  burden.  I  reached  my  spectacles  down  from 
the  nail,  and  found  the  post-mark  to  be  that  of  the  Mormon 
city ;  and  with  unsteady  hand  I  opened  the  seal,  and  found 
within  several  sheets  of  written  letter-paper,  directed  to  me 
in  Ada's  writing,  and  a  short  letter  from  John  Henderson, 
which  ran  thus :  — 

"'DEAR  SIR,— 

"'My  first  wife,  Adeline  Frazer  Henderson,  departed 
this  life  on  the  sixth  of  July,  at  my  house  in  the  city  of 
Great  Salt  Lake.  Shortly  before  dying  she  called  upon 


102  ROSE   TERRY. 

me,  in  the  presence  of  two  sisters,  and  one  of  the  Saints,  to 
deliver  into  your  hands  the  enclosed  packet,  and  tell  you  of 
her  death.  According  to  her  wish,  I  send  the  papers  by 
mail ;  and,  hoping  you  may  yet  be  called  to  be  a  partaker 
in  the  faith  of  the  saints  below,  I  remain  your  afflicted,  yet 
rejoicing  friend, 

" '  JOHN  HENDERSON.  ' 

"  I  was  really  stunned  for  a  moment,  my  young  friend, 
not  only  with  grief  at  my  own  loss,  but  with  pity  and  sur- 
prise at  the  entire  deadening,  as  it  appeared,  of  natural  af- 
fection in  the  man  to  whom  I  had  given  my  daughter ;  and 
also  my  conscience  was  not  free  from  offence,  for  I  could 
not  but  think  that  a  more  fervent  and  wrestling  expostula- 
tion, on  the  sin  of  marrying  an  unbeliever,  might  have  saved 
Adeline  from  sorrow  in  the  flesh.  However,  I  said  as 
much  as  seemed  best  at  the  time,  and  upon  that  reflection  I 
rested  myself;  for  he  who  adheres  to  a  pure  intention,  need 
not  repent  of  his  deeds  afterward ;  and  the  next  day,  when 
my  present  anguish  and  weakness  had  somewhat  abated,  I 
read  the  manuscript  Ada  had  sent  me. 

"  It  was,  doubtless,  penned  with  much  reluctance,  for  the 
child's  natural  pride  was  great,  and  no  less  weighty  subject 
than  her  husband's  salvation  could  have  forced  her  to  speak 
of  what  she  wrote  for  me :  and,  indeed,  I  should  feel  no 
right  to  put  the  confidence  into  your  hands,  were  not  my 
child  beyond  the  reach  of  man's  judgment,  and  did  I  not  feel 
it  a  sacred  duty  to  protest,  so  long  as  life  lasts,  against  this 
abominable  Mormon  delusion,  and  the  no  less  delusive  pre- 
text of  doing  evil  that  good  may  come.  I  cannot  read 
Ada's  letter  aloud  to  you,  for  there  is  to  be  a  funeral  at  two 
o'clock,  which  I  must  attend ;  but  I  will  give  you  the  pa- 
pers, and  you  may  sit  in  my  chair  and  read ;  only,  be 
patient  with  my  bees,  if  they  come  too  near  you,  for  they 
like  the  hop-blossoms,  and  never  sting  unless  you  strike. " 


THE  MOBMON'S  WIFE.  103 

So  saying,  Parson  Field  gave  me  his  leathern  chair  and 
the  papers,  and  I  sat  down  in  the  hop-crowned  porch,  to 
read  Adeline  Henderson's  story,  with  a  sort  of  reverence  for 
her  that  prompted  me  to  turn  the  rustling  pages  carefully, 
and  feel  startled  if  a  door  swung  to  in  the  quiet  house,  as  if 
I  were  eavesdropping ;  but  soon  I  ceased  to  hear,  absorbed 
in  her  letter,  which  began  as  the  first  did. 

"  DEAR  UXCLE,  — 

"  To-day  I  begged  John  to  write,  and  ask  you  to  come 
here.  I  could  not  write  you  since  I  came  here  but  that 
once,  though  your  letters  have  been  my  great  comfort,  and 
I  added  a  few  words  of  entreaty  to  his,  because  I  am  dying, 
and  it  seems  as  if  I  must  see  you  before  I  die ;  yet  I  fear 
the  letter  may  not  reach  you,  or  you  may  be  sick :  and  for 
that  reason  I  write  now,  to  tell  you  how  terrible  a  necessity 
urged  me  to  persuade  you  to  such  a  journey.  I  can  write 
but  little  at  a  time,  my  side  is  so  painful ;  they  call  it  slow- 
consumption  here,  but  I  know  better ;  the  heart  within  me 

is  turned  to  stone,  I  felt  it  then Ah !  you  see  my  mind 

wandered  in  that  last  line ;  it  still  will  return  to  the  old 
theme,  like  a  fugue  tune,  such  as  we  had  in  the  Plainfield 
singing-school.  I  remember  one  that  went,  '  The  Lord  is 
just,  is  just,  is  just. '  —  Is  He?  Dear  Uncle,  I  must  begin 
at  the  beginning,  or  you  never  will  know.  I  wrote  you  from 
St.  Louis,  did  I  not  ?  I  meant  to.  From  there,  we  had  a 
dreary  journey,  not  so  bad  to  Fort  Leavenworth,  but  after 
that  inexpressibly  dreary,  and  set  with  tokens  of  the  dead, 
who  perished  before  us.  A  long  reach  of  prairie,  day  after 
day,  and  night  after  night ;  grass,  and  sky,  and  graves ; 
grass,  and  sky,  and  graves ;  till  I  hardly  knew  whether  the 
life  I  dragged  along  was  life  or  death,  as  the  thirsty,  fever- 
ish days  wore  on  into  the  awful  and  breathless  nights,  when 
every  creature  was  dead  asleep,  and  the  very  stars  in  heaven 
grew  dim  in  the  hot,  sleepy  air  —  dreadful  days !  I  was 


104  ROSE    TERRY. 

too  glad  to  see  that  bitter  inland  sea,  blue  as  the  fresh  lakes, 
with  its  gray  islands  of  bare  rock,  and  sparkling  sand  shores, 
still  more  rejoiced  to  come  upon  the  City  itself,  the  rows  of 
quaint,  bare  houses,  and  such  cool  water-sources,  and,  over 
all,  near  enough  to  rest  both  eyes  and  heart,  the  sunlit 
mountains,  '  the  shadow  of  a  great  rock  in  a  weary  land.' 

"  I  liked  my  new  hotfse  well.  It  was  too  large  for  our 
need,  but  pleasanter  for  its  airiness,  and  the  first  thing  I  did 
was  to  plant  a  little  hop-vine,  that  I  had  brought  all  the  way 
with  such  great  care,  by  the  east  porch.  I  wanted  some- 
thing like  Plainfield  in  my  home.  I  don't  know  why  I  lin- 
ger so,  I  must  write  faster,  for  I  grow  weak  all  the  time. 

"  I  liked  the  City  very  well  for  awhile ;  the  neighbors 
were  kind,  and  John  more  than  that;  I  could  not  be  un- 
happy with  him I  thought.  We  had  a  pretty  garden, 

for  another  man  had  owned  the  house  before  us,  and  we 
had  not  to  begin  everything.  Our  next  door  neighbor,  Mrs. 
Colton,  was  good  and  kind  to  me,  so  was  her  daughter 
Lizzy,  a  pretty  girl,  with  fair  hair,  —  very  fair.  I  wonder 
John  liked  it  after  mine.  The  first  great  shock  I  had  was 
at  a  Mormon  meeting.  I  cannot  very  well  remember  the 
ceremony,  because  I  grew  so  faint ;  but  I  would  not  faint 
away  lest  some  one  should  see  me.  I  only  remember  that  it 
was  Mrs.  Col  ton's  husband  with  another  wife  being  "sealed" 
to  him,  as  they  say  here.  You  don't  know  what  that  means, 
Uncle  Field ;  it  is  one  part  of  this  religion  of  Satan,  that 
any  man  may  have,  if  he  will,  three  or  four  wives,  perhaps 
more.  I  only  know  that  shameless  man,  with  grown  daugh- 
ters, and  the  hair  on  his  head  snow-white,  has  taken  two, 
and  his  own  wife,  a  firm  believer  in  this  —  faith !  looks  on 
calmly,  and  lives  with  them  in  peace.  I  know  that,  and  my 
soul  sickened  with  disgust,  but  I  did  not  fear ;  not  a  thought, 
not  a  dream,  not  a  shadow  of  fear  crossed  me.  I  should 
have  despised  myself  forever  if  the  idea  had  stained  my 
soul;  my  husband  was  my  husband  —  mine  —  before  God 


THE   MORMON'S   WIFE.  105 

and  man !  and  our  child  was  in  heaven ;  how  glad  I  was 
she  conld  never  be  a  Mormon ! 

"  I  was  sorry  for  Mrs.  Colton,  though  she  did  not  need  it, 
and  when  I  saw  John  leaning  over  their  gate,  or  smoking  in 
the  porch  with  the  old  man,  I  thought  he  felt  so,  too,  and  I 
was  glad  to  see  him  more  sociable  than  ever  he  was  in  the 
States.  After  awhile  he  did  not  smoke,  but  talked  with 
Elder  Colton,  and  then  would  come  home  and  expound  out 
of  the  book  of  Mormon  to  me.  I  was  very  glad  to  have 
him  earnest  in  his  religion,  but  I  could  not  be.  Then  he 
grew  very  thoughtful,  and  had  a  silent  fit,  but  I  took  no 
notice  of  it,  though  I  think  now  he  meant  to  leave  me,  but 
I  began  to  pine  a  little  for  home,  and  when  I  worked  in  the 
garden,  and  trained  the  vines  about  our  veranda,  I  used  to 
wish  he  would  help  me  as  he  did  Lizzy  Colton,  but  I  still 
remembered  how  good  he  was  to  pity  and  help  them. 

"  O  fool !  yet,  I  had  rather  be  a  fool  over  again  than 
have  imagined  —  that  I  am  glad  of,  even  now  —  I  did  not 
once  suspect. 

"  But  one  day  —  I  remember  every  little  thing  in  that 
day  —  even  the  slow  ticking  of  the  clock,  as  I  tied  up  my 
hop-vine;  and  after  that  I  went  into  the  garden,  and  sat 
down  on  a  little  bench  under  the  grape-trellis,  and  looked  at 
the  mountains.  How  beautiful  they  were !  all  purple  in  the 
shadow  of  sunset,  and  the  sky  golden  green  above  them, 
with  one  scarlet  cloud  floating  slowly  upward:  I  hope  I 
shall  never  see  a  red  cloud  again.  Presently,  John  came 
and  sat  by  me,  and  I  laid  my  head  on  his  shoulder ;  I  was 
so  glad  to  have  him  there  —  it  cured  my  homesickness; 
once  or  twice  he  began  to  say  something,  and  stopped,  but  I 
did  not  mind  it.  I  wanted  him  to  see  a  low  line  of  mist 
creeping  down  a  canon  in  the  mountains,  and  I  stood  up  to 
point  it  out ;  so  he  rose,  too,  and  in  a  strange,  hurried  way, 
began  to  say  something  about  the  Mormon  faith,  and  the 
duties  of  a  believer,  which  I  did  not  notice  either  very 
5* 


106  ROSE   TERRY. 

much  —  I  was  so  full  of  admiring  the  scarlet  cloud  —  when, 
like  a  sudden  thunder-clap  at  my  ear,  I  heard  this  quick, 
resolute  sentence :  '  And  so,  according  to  the  advice  and  best 
judgment  of  the  Saints,  Elizabeth  Colton  will  be  sealed  to 
me,  after  two  days,  as  my  spiritual  wife.' 

"Then  my  soul  fled  out  of  my  lips,  in  one  cry  —  I  was 
dead  —  my  heart  turned  to  a  stone,  and  nothing  can  melt  it ! 
I  did  not  speak,  or  sigh,  but  sat  down  on  the  bench,  and 
John  talked  a  great  deal ;  I  think  he  rubbed  my  hands  and 
kissed  me,  but  I  did  not  feel  it.  I  went  away,  by  and  by, 
when  it  was  dark,  into  the  house  and  into  my  room.  I 
locked  the  door  and  looked  at  the  wall  till  morning,  then  I 
went  down  and  sat  in  a  chair  till  night ;  and  I  drank,  drank, 
drank,  like  a  fever.  All  the  time  cold  water,  but  it  never 
reached  my  thirst.  John  came  home,  but  he  did  not  dare 
touch  me ;  I  was  a  dead  corpse,  with  another  spirit  in  it  — 
not  his  wife  —  she  was  dead,  and  gone  to  heaven  on  a  bright 
cloud.  I  remember  being  glad  of  that. 

"  In  two  days  more  he  had  a  wife,  and  I  was  not  his  any 
longer.  I  staid  up  stairs  when  he  was  in  the  house,  and 
locked  my  door,  till,  after  a  great  many  days,  I  began  to  feel 
sorry  for  him.  Oh  !  how  sorry  !  for  I  knew  —  I  know  —  he 
will  see  himself  some  day  with  my  eyes,  but  not  till  I  die. 
Then  I  found  my  lips  full  of  blood  one  morning,  and  that 
pleased  me,  for  I  knew  it  was  a  promise  of  the  life  to  come ; 
now  I  should  go  to  heaven,  where  there  are  n't  any  Mor- 
mons. 

"  I  believe,  though,  people  were  kind  to  me  all  the  time ; 
for  I  remember  they  came  and  said  things  to  me,  and  one 
shook  me  a  little  to  see  if  I  felt ;  and  one  woman  cried.  I 
was  glad  of  that,  for  I  could  n't  cry.  However,  after  three 
months,  I  was  better:  worse,  John  said  one  day,  and  he 
brought  a  doctor,  but  the  man  knew  as  well  as  I  did  —  so  he 
said  nothing  at  all,  and  gave  me  some  herb  tea  ;  —  tell  Aunt 
Martha  that. 


THE   MORMON'S  WIFE.  107 

"  Then  I  could  walk  out  of  doors,  but  I  did  not  care  to ; 
only  once  I  smelt  the  hop-blossoms,  and  that  I  could  not 
bear,  so  I  went  out  and  pulled  up  my  hop-vine  by  the  roots, 
and  laid  it  out,  all  straight,  in  the  fierce  sunshine :  it  died 
directly.  In  the  winter,  John  had  another  wife  sealed  to 
him ;  I  heard  somebody  say  so ;  he  did  not  tell  me,  and  if 
he  had  I  could  not  help  it.  I  found  he  had  taken  a  little 
adobe  house  for  those  two,  and  I  knew  it  was  out  of  tender- 
ness for  my  feelings  he  did  so.  Oh  !  Uncle  Field !  perhaps 
he  has  loved  me  all  this  time  ?  I  know  better,  though,  than 
that  ?  Spring  came,  and  I  was  very  weak,  and  I  grew  not 
to  care  about  anything;  so  I  told  John  he  could  bring 
those  two  women  to  this  house  if  he  wished ;  I  did  not  care, 
only  nobody  must  ever  come  into  my  room.  He  looked 
ashamed,  and  pleased,  too ;  but  he  brought  them,  and  no- 
body ever  did  come  into  my  room.  By  and  by  Elizabeth 
Colton  brought  a  little  baby  down  stairs,  and  its  name  was 
Clara.  Poor  child !  poor  little  Mormon  child  !  I  hope  it 
will  die  some  time  before  it  grows  up ;  only  I  should  not 
like  it  to  come  my  side  of  heaven,  for  it  had  blue  eyes  like 
John's. 

"  Then  I  grew  more  and  more  ill,  and  now  I  am  really 
dying,  and  no  letter  has  come  from  you !  It  takes  so  long  — 
three  whole  months,  and  I  have  been  more  than  a  year  in 
the  house  with  John  Henderson  and  the  two  women.  I 
know  I  shall  never  see  you,  but  I  must  speak,  I  must,  even 
out  of  the  grave  ;  and  I  keep  hearing  that  old  fugue.  'The 
Lord  is  just,  is  just,  is  just;  the  Lord  is  just  and  good!' 
Is  he  ?  I  know  He  is ;  but  I  forget  sometimes.  Uncle 
Field !  you  must  pray  for  John !  you  must !  I  cannot  die 
and  leave  him  in  his  sins,  his  delusion ;  he  does  not  think  it 
is  sin,  but  I  know  it.  Pray !  pray !  dear  Uncle  :  don't  be 
discouraged  —  do  not  fear  —  he  will  be  undeceived  some 
time ;  he  will  repent,  I  know !  The  Lord  is  just,  and  I  will 
pray  in  heaven,  and  I  will  tell  Nelly  to,  but  you  must.  It 


108  ROSE    TERRY. 

says  in  the  Bible,  '  the  prayer  of  a  righteous  man ' ;  and  oh ! 
I  am  not  righteous !  I  should  not  have  married  him ;  it 
was  an  unequal  yoke,  and  I  have  borne  the  burden ;  but  I 
loved  him  so  much !  Uncle  Field,  I  did  not  keep  myself 
from  idols.  Pray !  I  shall  be  dead,  but  he  lives.  Pray 
for  him,  and,  if  you  will,  for  the  little  child  —  because  —  I 
am  dying.  Dear  Nelly  !  —  " 

"Are  you  blotting  my  letter,  young  man?"  said  Parson 
Field,  at  my  elbow,  as  I  deciphered  the  last  broken,  tremb- 
ling line  of  Ada's  story.  "  Here  I  have  been  five  minutes, 
and  you  did  not  hear  me ! "  I  really  had  blotted  the  letter  ! 


BEYOND. 

BY  JOHN  GIBSON  LOCKHART. 

WHEN  youthful  faith  hath  fled, 
Of  loving  take  thy  leave ; 
Be  constant  to  the  dead,  — 
The  dead  cannot  deceive 

Sweet  modest  flowers  of  spring, 
How  fleet  your  balmy  day ! 

And  man's  brief  year  can  bring 
No  secondary  May,  — 

No  earthly  burst  again 
Of  gladness  out  of  gloom ; 

Fond  hope  and  vision  vain, 
Ungrateful  to  the  tomb. 

But 't  is  an  old  belief 

That  on  some  solemn  shore. 

Beyond  the  sphere  of  grief, 

Dear  friends  shall  meet  once  more,  • 

Beyond  the  sphere  of  time, 
And  sin  and  fate's  control, 

Serene  in  endless  prime 
Of  body  and  of  soul. 

That  creed  I  fain  would  keep, 
That  hope  I'll  not  forego; 

Eternal  be  the  sleep, 
Unless  to  waken  so. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  PASSAGES 


BY   JOHN   MILTON. 

FOR  although  a  poet,  soaring  in  the  high  region  of  his 
fancies,  with  his  garland  and  singing-robes  about  him, 
might,  without  apology,  speak  more  of  himself  than  I  mean 
to  do ;  yet  for  me  sitting  here  below  in  the  cool  element  of 
prose,  a  mortal  thing  among  many  readers,  of  no  empyreal 
conceit,  to  venture  and  divulge  unusual  things  of  myself,  I 
shall  petition  to  the  gentler  sort,  it  may  not  be  envy  to  me. 
I  must  say,  therefore,  that  after  I  had,  for  my  first  years,  by 
the  ceaseless  diligence  and  care  of  my  father,  whom  God  rec- 
ompense, been  exercised  to  the  tongues,  and  some  sciences,  as 
my  age  would  suffer,  by  sundry  masters  and  teachers,  both 
at  home  and  at  the  schools,  it  was  found  that  whether  aught 
was  imposed  me  by  them  that  had  the  overlooking,  or  be- 
taken to  of  mine  own  choice  in  English,  or  other  tongue, 
prosing  or  versing,  but  chiefly  this  latter,  the  style,  by  certain 
vital  signs  it  had,  was  likely  to  live.  But  much  latelier,  in 
the  private  academies  of  Italy,  whither  I  was  favored  to  re- 
sort, perceiving  that  some  trifles  which  I  had  in  memory, 
composed  at  under  twenty  or  thereabout  (for  the  manner  is 
that  every  one  must  give  some  proof  of  his  wit  and  reading 
there),  met  with  acceptance  above  what  was  looked  for ; 
and  other  things  which  I  had  shifted  in  scarcity  of  books 
and  conveniences,  to  patch  up  amongst  them,  were  received 
with  written  encomiums,  which  the  Italian  is  not  forward  to 
bestow  on  men  of  this  side  the  Alps,  I  began  thus  far  to 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL   PASSAGES.  Ill 

assent  both  to  them  and  divers  of  my  friends  here  at  home, 
and  not  less  to  an  inward  prompting,  which  now  grew  daily 
upon  me,  that  by  labor  and  intent  study,  (which  I  take  to  be 
my  portion  in  this  life,)  joined  with  the  strong  propensity 
of  nature,  I  might  perhaps  leave  something  so  written,  to 
after-times,  as  they  should  not  willingly  let  it  die.  These 
thoughts  at  once  possessed  me,  and  these  other ;  that  if  I 
were  certain  to  write  as  men  buy  leases,  for  three  lives  and 
downward,  there  ought  no  regard  be  sooner  had  than  to 
God's  glory,  by  the  honor  and  instruction  of  my  country. 
For  which  cause,  and  not  only  for  that  I  knew  it  would  be 
hard  to  arrive  at  the  second  rank  among  the  Latins,  I  ap- 
plied myself  to  that  resolution  which  Ariosto  followed  against 
the  persuasions  of  Bembo,  to  fix  all  the  industry  and  art  I 
could  unite  to  the  adorning  of  my  native  tongue;  not  to 
make  verbal  curiosities  the  end,  (that  were  a  toilsome  van- 
ity,) but  to  be  an  interpreter  and  relater  of  the  best  and 
sagest  things  among  mine  own  citizens  throughout  this 
island,  in  the  mother  dialect.  That  what  the  greatest  and 
choicest  wits  of  Athens,  Rome,  or  modern  Italy,  and  those 
Hebrews  of  old  did  for  their  country,  I,  in  my  proportion, 
with  this  over  and  above,  of  being  a  Christian,  might  do  for 
mine  ;  not  caring  to  be  once  named  abroad,  though  perhaps  I 
could  attain  to  that,  but  content  with  these  British  islands 
as  my  world  ;  whose  fortune  hath  hitherto  been,  that  if  the 
Athenians,  as  some  say,  made  their  small  deeds  great  and 
renowned  by  their  eloquent  writers,  England  hath  had  her 
noble  achievements  made  small  by  the  unskilful  handling  of 
monks  and  mechanics. 

Time  serves  not  now,  and  perhaps  I  might  seem  too  pro- 
fuse, to  give  any  certain  account  of  what  the  mind  at  home, 
in  the  spacious  circuits  of  her  musing,  hath  liberty  to  pro- 
pose to  herself,  though  of  highest  hope  and  hardest  attempt- 
ing. Whether  that  epic  form,  whereof  the  two  poems  of 
Homer,  and  those  other  two  of  Virgil  and  Tasso  are  a  diffuse, 


112  JOHN   MILTON. 

and  the  book  of  Job  a  brief  model ;  or  whether  the  rules  of 
Aristotle  herein  are  strictly  to  be  kept,  or  nature  to  be  fol- 
lowed, which  in  them  that  know  art,  and  use  judgment,  is 
no  transgression,  but  an  enriching  of  art.  And  lastly,  what 
king  or  knight  before  the  conquest,  might  be  chosen,  in 
whom  to  lay  the  pattern  of  a  Christian  hero.  And  as  Tasso 
gave  to  a  prince  of  Italy  his  choice,  whether  he  would  com- 
mand him.  to  write  of  Godfrey's  expedition  against  the  infi- 
dels, or  Belisarius  against  the  Goths,  or  Charlemagne  against 
the  Lombards  ;  if  to  the  instinct  of  nature  and  the  embold- 
ening of  art  aught  may  be  trusted,  and  that  there  be  noth- 
ing adverse  in  our  climate,  or  the  fate  of  this  age,  it  haply 
would  be  no  rashness,  from  an  equal  diligence  and  inclina- 
tion, to  present  the  like  offer  in  our  own  ancient  stories.  Or 
whether  those  dramatic  constitutions,  wherein  Sophocles 
and  Euripides  reign,  shall  be  found  more  doctrinal  and  ex- 
emplary to  a  nation.  The  Scripture  also  affords  us  a  divine 
pastoral  drama  in  the  Song  of  Solomon,  consisting  of  two 
persons,  and  a  double  chorus,  as  Origen  rightly  judges ;  and 
the  Apocalypse  of  St.  John  is  the  majestic  image  of  a  high 
and  stately  tragedy,  shutting  up  and  intermingling  her  sol- 
emn scenes  and  acts  with  a  seven-fold  chorus  of  hallelujahs 
and  harping  symphonies.  And  this  my  opinion,  the  grave 
authority  of  Pareus,  commenting  that  book,  is  sufficient 
to  confirm.  Or  if  occasion  should  lead,  to  imitate  those 
magnific  odes  and  hymns,  wherein  Pindarus  and  Callima- 
chus  are  in  most  things  worthy,  some  others  in  their  frame 
judicious,  in  their  matter  most  an  end  faulty.  But  those 
frequent  songs  throughout  the  laws  and  prophets,  beyond  all 
these,  not  in  their  divine  argument  alone,  but  in  the  very 
critical  art  of  composition,  may  be  easily  made  appear  over 
all  the  kinds  of  lyric  poesy  to  be  incomparable.  These 
abilities,  wheresoever  they  be  found,  are  the  inspired  gift  of 
God,  rarely  bestowed,  but  yet  to  some  (though  most  abuse) 
in  every  nation :  and  are  of  power,  beside  the  office  of  a 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL   PASSAGES.  113 

pulpit,  to  inbreed  and  cherish  in  a  great  people  the  seeds 
of  virtue  and  public  civility ;  to  allay  the  perturbations  of 
the  mind,  and  set  the  affections  in  right  tune  ;  to  celebrate 
in  glorious  and  lofty  hymns  the  throne  and  equipage  of 
God's  almightiness,  and  what  he  suffers  to  be  wrought  with 
high  providence  in  his  church  ;  to  sing  victorious  agonies  of 
martyrs  and  saints,  the  deeds  and  triumphs  of  just  and  pious 
nations,  doing  valiantly  through  faith  against  the  enemies  of 
Christ ;  to  deplore  the  general  relapses  of  kingdoms  and 
states  from  justice  and  God's  true  worship.  Lastly,  whatso- 
ever in  religion  is  holy  and  sublime,  in  virtue  amiable  or 
grave,  whatsoever  hath  passion  or  admiration  in  all  the 
changes  of  that  which  is  called  fortune  from  without,  or  the 
wily  subtleties  and  refluxes  of  man's  thoughts  from  within ; 
all  these  things,  with  a  solid  and  treatable  smoothness,  to 
point  out  and  describe.  Teaching  over  the  whole  book  of 
sanctity  and  virtue,  through  all  the  instances  of  example, 
with  such  delight  to  those  especially  of  soft  and  delicious 
temper,  who  will  not  so  much  as  look  upon  truth  her- 
self, unless  they  see  her  elegantly  dressed ;  that  whereas  the 
paths  of  honesty  and  good  life  appear  now  rugged  and  diffi- 
cult, though  they  be  indeed  easy  and  pleasant,  they  will  then 
appear  to  all  men  both  easy  and  pleasant,  though  they  were 
rugged  and  difficult  indeed.  And  what  a  benefit  this  would 
be  to  our  youth  and  gentry,  may  be  soon  guessed  by  what 
we  know  of  the  corruption  and  bane  which  they  suck  in 
daily  from  the  writings  and  interludes  of  libidinous  and 
ignorant  poetasters,  who  having  scarce  ever  heard  of  that 
which  is  the  main  consistence  of  a  true  poem,  the  choice  of 
such  persons  as  they  ought  to  introduce,  and  what  is  moral 
and  decent  to  each  one,  do  for  the  most  part  lay  up  vicious 
principles  in  sweet  pills,  to  be  swallowed  down,  and  make 
the  taste  of  virtuous  documents  harsh  and  sour.  But  be- 
cause the  spirit  of  man  cannot  demean  itself  lively  in  this 
body,  without  some  recreating  intermission  of  labor  and 


114  JOHN  MILTON. 

serious  things,  it  were  happy  for  the  commonwealth,  if  our 
magistrates,  as  in  those  famous  governments  of  old,  would 
take  into  their  care,  not  only  the  deciding  of  our  conten- 
tious law  cases  and  brawls,  but  the  managing  of  our  public 
sports  and  festival  pastimes,  that  they  might  be,  not  &uch  as 
were  authorized  awhile  since,  the  provocations  of  drunken- 
ness and  lust,  but  such  as  may  inure  and  harden  our  bodies, 
by  martial  exercises,  to  all  warlike  skill  and  performance ; 
and  may  civilize,  adorn,  and  make  discreet  our  minds,  by 
the  learned  and  affable  meeting  of  frequent  academies,  and 
the  procurement  of  wise  and  artful  recitations,  sweetened 
with  eloquent  and  graceful  enticements  to  the  love  and 
practice  of  justice,  temperance,  and  fortitude,  instructing 
and  bettering  the  nation  at  all  opportunities,  that  the  call  of 
wisdom  and  virtue  may  be  heard  everywhere,  as  Solomon 
saith :  "  She  crieth  without,  she  uttereth  her  voice  in  the 
streets,  in  the  top  of  high  places,  in  the  chief  con- 
course, and  in  the  openings  of  the  gates."  Whether  this 
may  not  be  only  in  pulpits,  but  after  another  persuasive 
method,  at  set  and  solemn  paneguries,  in  theatres,  porches, 
or  what  other  place  or  way  may  win  most  upon  the  people, 
to  receive  at  once  both  recreation  and  instruction  ;  let  them 
in  authority  consult.  The  thing  which  I  had  to  say,  and 
those  intentions  which  have  lived  within  me,  ever  since  I 
could  conceive  myself  anything  worth  to  my  country,  I  re- 
turn to  crave  excuse,  that  urgent  reason  hath  plucked  from 
me,  by  an  abortive  and  foredated  discovery.  And  the  accom- 
plishment of  them  lies  not  but  in  a  power  above  man's  to 
promise  ;  but  that  none  hath  by  more  studious  ways  endeav- 
ored, and  with  more  unwearied  spirit  that  none  shall,  that  I 
dare  almost  aver  of  myself,  as  far  as  life  and  free  leisure  will 
extend ;  and  that  the  land  had  once  enfranchised  herself 
from  this  impertinent  yoke  of  prelacy,  under  whose  inquisito- 
rious  and  tyrannical  duncery  no  free  and  splendid  wit  can 
flourish.  Neither  do  I  think  it  shame  to  covenant  with  any 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  PASSAGES.  115 

knowing  reader,  that  for  some  few  years  yet  I  may  go  on 
trust  with  him  toward  the  payment  of  what  I  am  now  in- 
debted, as  being  a  work  not  to  be  raised  from  the  heat  of 
youth,  or  the  vapors  of  wine ;  like  that  which  flows  at 
waste  from  the  pen  of  some  vulgar  amorist,  or  the  trencher- 
fury  of  a  rhyming  parasite ;  nor  to  be  obtained  by  the  invo- 
cation of  dame  Memory  and  her  syren  daughters ;  but  by 
devout  prayer  to  that  eternal  Spirit,  who  can  enrich  with 
all  utterance  and  knowledge,  and  sends  out  his  seraphim 
with  the  hallowed  fire  of  his  altar,  to  touch  and  purify 
the  lips  of  whom  he  pleases.  To  this  must  be  added  indus- 
trious and  select  reading,  steady  observation,  insight  into  all 
seemly  and  generous  arts  and  affairs  ;  till  which  in  some 
measure  be  compassed,  at  mine  own  peril  and  cost,  I  refuse 
not  to  sustain  this  expectation  from  as  many  as  are  not  loth 
to  hazard  so  much  credulity  upon  the  best  pledges  that  I 
can  give  them.  Although  it  nothing  content  me  to  have 
disclosed  thus  much  beforehand,  but  that  I  trust  hereby  to 
make  it  manifest  with  what  small  willingness  I  endure  to 
interrupt  the  pursuit  of  no  less  hopes  than  these,  and  leave  a 
calm  and  pleasing  solitariness,  fed  with  cheerful  .and  confi- 
dent thoughts,  to  embark  in  a  troubled  sea  of  noises  and 
hoarse  disputes  ;  from  beholding  the  bright  countenance  of 
truth  in  the  quiet  and  still  air  of  delightful  studies,  to  come 
into  the  dim  reflection  of  hollow  antiquities  sold  by  the 
seeming  bulk,  and  there  be  fain  to  club  quotations  with  men 
whose  learning  and  belief  lies  in  marginal  stuffings ;  who 
when  they  have,  like  good  sumpters,  laid  you  down  their 
horse-load  of  citations  and  fathers  at  your  door,  with  a  rhap- 
sody of  who  and  who  were  bishops  here  or  there,  you  may 
take  off  their  pack-saddles,  their  day's  work  is  done,  and 
episcopacy,  as  they  think,  stoutly  vindicated.  Let  any  gen- 
tle apprehension  that  can  distinguish  learned  pains  from 
unlearned  drudgery,  imagine  what  pleasure  or  profoundness 
can  be  in  this,  or  what  honor  to  deal  against  such  adveraa- 


116  JOHN  MILTON. 

ries.  But  were  it  the  meanest  under-service,  if  God,  by  his 
secretary,  conscience,  enjoin  it,  it  were  sad  for  me  if  I  should 
draw  back ;  for  me  especially,  now  when  all  men  offer  their 
aid  to  help,  ease,  and  lighten  the  difficult  labors  of  the 
Church  to  whose  service,  by  the  intentions  of  my  parents  and 
friends,  I  was  destined  of  a  child,  and  in  mine  own  resolu- 
tions, till  coming  to  some  maturity  of  years,  and  perceiving 
what  tyranny  had  invaded  the  Church,  that  he  who  would 
take  orders,  must  subscribe  slave,  and  take  an  oath  withal ; 
which  unless  he  took  with  a  conscience  that  would  retch,  he 
must  either  strait  perjure,  or  split  his  faith ;  I  thought  it 
better  to  prefer  a  blameless  silence,  before  the  sacred  office 
of  speaking,  bought  and  begun  with  servitude  and  forswear- 
ing. 


WAKENING. 

BY  WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM. 

A  GOLDEN  pen  I  mean  to  take, 
A  book  of  ivory  white, 
And  in  the  mornings  when  I  wake 

The  kind  dream-thoughts  to  write, 
Which  come  from  heaven  for  love's  support, 

Like  dews  that  fall  at  night. 
For  soon  the  delicate  gifts  decay, 
As  stirs  the  mired  and  smoky  day. 

"  Sleep  is  like  death,"  and  after  sleep 

The  world  seems  new  begun ; 
Its  earnestness  all  clear  and  deep, 

Its  true  solution  won ; 
White  thoughts  stand  luminous  and  firm, 

Like  statues  in  the  sun ; 
Refreshed  from  super-sensuous  founts, 
The  soul  to  purer  vision  mounts. 


JOHN   GRAHAM, 

FIRST   VISCOUNT    OF   DUNDEE. 
BY  EDMUND  LODGE. 

THIS  remarkable  man,  whose  name  can  never  be  for- 
gotten while  military  skill  and  prowess,  and  the  most 
loyal  and  active  fidelity  to  an  almost  hopeless  cause,  shall 
challenge  recollection,  was  the  eldest  son  of  Sir  William 
Graham,  of  Claverhouse,  in  the  County  of  Forfar,  by  Jane, 
fourth  daughter  of  John  Carnegy,  first  Earl  of  Northesk. 
His  family  was  a  scion  which  branched  off  from  the  ancient 
stock  of  the  great  House  of  Montrose,  early  in  the  fifteenth 
century,  by  the  second  marriage  of  William  Lord  Graham, 
of  Kincardine,  to  Mary,  second  daughter  of  Robert  the 
Third,  King  of  Scotland,  and  had  gradually  acquired  consid- 
erable estates,  chiefly  by  the  bounty  of  the  Crown.  He  re- 
ceived his  education  in  the  University  of  St.  Andrews,  which 
he  left  to  seek  on  the  Continent  the  more  polished  qualifica- 
tions of  a  private  gentleman  of  large  fortune,  the  sphere  to 
which  he  seemed  to  have  been  destined.  In  France,  how- 
ever, the  latent  fire  of  his  character  broke  forth ;  he  entered 
as  a  volunteer  into  the  army  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth ;  and 
having  presently  determined  to  adopt  the  military  profes- 
sion, accepted  in  1672  a  commission  of  Cornet  in  the  Horse 
Guards  of  William  the  Third,  Prince  of  Orange,  by  whom, 
in  the  summer  of  1674,  he  was  promoted  to  be  Captain  of  a 
troop,  for  his  signal  gallantry  at  the  battle  of  Seneffe,  in 
which  indeed  he  saved  the  life  of  that  Prince  by  a  personal 


JOHN   GRAHAM.  119 

effort.  He  asked  soon  after  for  the  command  of  one  of  the 
Scottish  regiments  in  the  Dutch  service,  and,  strange  to  tell, 
was  refused,  on  which  he  threw  up  his  commission,  making 
the  cutting  remark,  that  "  the  soldier  who  has  not  gratitude 
cannot  be  brave,"  and  returned  to  England,  bringing  with 
him,  however,  the  warmest  recommendations  from  William 
to  Charles  the  Second  ;  and  Charles,  who  had  been  just  then 
misadvised  to  subdue  the  obstinacy  of  the  Scottish  Cove- 
nanters by  force  of  arms,  appointed  him  to  lead  a  body  of 
horse  which  had  been  raised  in  Scotland  for  that  purpose, 
and  gave  him  full  powers  to  act  as  he  might  think  fit  against 
them,  although  under  the  nominal  command  of  the  Duke  of 
Monmouth.  His  conduct  in  the  performance  of  this  im- 
politic and  cruel  commission  has  left  a  stain  on  his  memory 
scarcely  to  be  glossed  over  by  the  brilliancy  of  his  subse- 
quent merits.  Bred  from  his  infancy  in  an  enthusiastic  ven- 
eration to  monarchy,  and  to  the  Established  Church,  his 
hatred  to  the  Whigs,  as  they  were  then  called  in  Scotland, 
was  almost  a  part  of  his  nature  ;  and,  under  the  influence  of  • 
a  temper  which  never  allowed  him  to  be  lukewarm  in  any 
pursuit,  his  zeal  degenerated  on  this  occasion  with  a  fright- 
ful facility  into  a  spirit  of  persecution.  He  watched  and 
dispersed,  with  the  most  severe  vigilance,  the  devotional 
meetings  of  those  perverse  and  miserable  sectaries,  and 
forced  thousands  of  them  to  subscribe,  at  the  point  of  the 
sword,  to  an  oath  utterly  subversive  of  the  doctrines  which 
they  most  cherished.  But  this  was  not  the  worst.  On  the 
1st  of  July,  1679,  having  attacked  a  conventicle  on  Loudoun 
Hill,  in  Ayrshire,  the  neighboring  peasants  rose  suddenly  on 
a  detachment  of  his  troops,  and,  with  that  almost  supernatu- 
ral power  which  a  pure  thirst  of  vengeance  alone  will  some- 
times confer  on  mere  physical  force,  defeated  them  with 
considerable  loss.  The  fancied  disgrace  annexed  to  this 
check  raised  Graham's  fury  to  the  highest  pitch,  and  he  per- 
mitted himself  to  retaliate  on  the  unarmed  Whigs  by  cruelties 


120  EDMUND    LODGE. 

inconsistent  with  the  character  of  a  brave  man.  The  track 
of  his  march  was  now  uniformly  marked  by  carnage  ;  the 
refusal  of  his  test  was  punished  with  instant  death ;  and  the 
practice  of  these  horrible  excesses,  which  was  continued  for 
some  months,  procured  for  him  the  appellation  of  "  Bloody 
Claverhouse  " ;  by  which  he  is  still  occasionally  mentioned 
in  that  part  of  Scotland.  He  apologized  for  these  horrors 
by  coldly  remarking,  that  "  if  terror  ended  or  prevented  war, 
it  was  true  mercy." 

It  may  be  concluded  that  this  intemperance  had  the  full 
approbation  of  the  Crown,  for  we  find  that  he  was  appointed 
in  1682  Sheriff  of  the  Shire  of  Wigton;  received  soon  after 
a  commission  of  Captain  in  what  was  called  the  Royal  Regi- 
ment of  Horse  ;  was  sworn  a  Privy-Councillor  in  Scotland  ; 
and  had  a  grant  from  the  King  of  the  Ca.«tle  of  Dudhope,  and 
the  office  of  Constable  of  Dundee.  Nor  was  it  less  acceptable 
— such  is  the  rage  of  party,  especially  when  excited  by  re- 
ligious discord  —  to  the  Scottish  Episcopalians,  who  from  that 
•time  seemed  to  have  reposed  in  him  the  highest  confidence. 
James,  however,  in  forming  on  his  accession  a  new  Privy 
Council  for  that  country,  was  prevailed  on  to  omit  his  name, 
on  the  ground  of  his  having  connected  himself  in  marriage 
with  the  fanatical  family  of  Cochrane,  Earl  of  Dundonald, 
but  that  umbrage  was  soon  removed,  and  in  1686  he  was 
restored  to  his  seat  in  the  Council,  and  appointed  a  Brigadier- 
General  ;  in  1688  promoted  to  the  rank  of  Major-General ; 
and,  on  the  12th  of  November  in  that  year,  created  by 
patent  to  him,  and  the  heirs  male  of  his  body,  with  remain- 
der, in  default  of  such  issue,  to  his  other  heirs  male,  Viscount 
of  Dundee,  and  Baron  Graham  of  Claverhouse,  in  Scotland. 
The  gift  of  these  dignities  was,  in  fact,  the  concluding  act  of 
James's  expiring  government.  Graham,  who  was  then  at- 
tending that  unhappy  Prince  in  London,  used  every  effort 
that  good  sense  and  high  spirit  could  suggest,  to  induce  him  to 
remain  in  his  capital,  and  await  there  with  dignified  firmness 


JOHN    GRAHAM.  121 

the  arrival  of  the  Prince  of  Orange ;  undertaking  for  himself 
to  collect,  with  that  promptitude  which  was  almost  peculiar 
to  him,  ten  thousand  of  the  King's  disbanded  troops,  and  at 
their  head  to  annihilate  the  Dutch  forces  which  William  had 
brought  with  him.  Perhaps  there  existed  not  on  the  face  of 
the  earth  another  man  so  likely  to  redeem  such  an  engage- 
ment ;  but  James,  depressed  and  irresolute,  refused  the  offer. 
Struck,  however,  with  the  zeal  and  bravery,  and  indeed  with 
the  personal  affection,  which  had  dictated  it,  he  intrusted  to 
Dundee  the  direction  of  all  his  military  affairs  in  Scotland, 
whither  that  nobleman  repaired  just  at  the  time  that  James 
fled  from  London. 

When  he  arrived  at  Edinburgh  he  found  a  Convention  sit- 
ting, as  in  London,  of  the  Estates  of  the  country,  in  which 
he  took  his  place.  He  complained  to  that  assembly  that  a 
design  had  been  formed  to  assassinate  him ;  required  that  all 
strangers  should  be  removed  from  the  town  ;  and,  his  request 
having  been  denied,  he  left  Edinburgh  at  the  head  of  a  troop 
of  horse,  which  he  had  hastily  formed  there  of  soldiers  who 
had  deserted  in  England  from  his  own  regiment.  In  the 
short  interval  afforded  by  the  discussion  of  this  matter,  he 
formed  his  plans.  After  a  conference  with  the  Duke  of 
Gordon,  who  then  held  the  Castle  for  James,  he  set  out  for 
Stirling,  where  he  called  a  Parliament  of  the  friends  of  that 
Prince,  and  the  revolutionists  in  Scotland  saw  their  influ- 
ence, even  within  a  few  clays,  dispelled  as  it  were  by  magic,  in 
obedience  to  his  powerful  energies.  He  was,  in  a  manner, 
without  troops,  depending  on  the  affections  of  those  around 
him,  which  he  had  heated  to  enthusiasm,  when  a  force  sent 
by  the  Convention  to  seize  his  person  seemed  to  remind  him 
that  he  must  have  an  army.  He  retired  therefore  into  Loch- 
aber ;  summoned  a  meeting  of.  the  chiefs  of  clans  in  the 
Highlands,  and  presently  found  himself  at  the  head  of  six 
thousand  of  the  hardy  natives,  well  armed  and  accoutred. 
He  now  wrote  to  James,  who,  in  compliance  with  French 
6 


122  EDMUND   LODGE. 

counsels,  was  wasting  his  time  and  means  in  Ireland,  con- 
juring him  to  embark  with  a  part  of  his  army  for  Scotland, 
"  where,"  as  he  told  the  king,  "  there  were  no  regular  troops, 
except  four  regiments,  which  "William  had  lately  sent  down ; 
where  his  presence  would  fix  the  wavering,  and  intimidate 
the  timid ;  and  where  hosts  of  shepherds  would  start  up  war- 
riors at  the  first  wave  of  his  banner  upon  their  mountains." 
With  the  candor  and  plainness  of  a  soldier  and  a  faithful 
servant,  he  besought  James  to  be  content  with  the  exercise  of 
his  own  religion,  and  to  leave  in  Ireland  the  Earl  of  Melfort, 
Secretary  of  State,  between  whom  and  himself  some  jealousy 
existed  which  might  be  prejudicial  to  a  service  in  which  they 
were  alike  devotedly  sincere,  however  they  might  differ  as  to 
the  best  means  of  advancing  it.  James  rejected  his  advice. 
"  Dundee  was  furnished,"  says  Burnet,  "  with  some  small 
store  of  arms  and  ammunition,  and  had  kind  promises,  en- 
couraging him,  and  all  that  joined  with  him." 

Left  now  to  his  own  discretion  and  his  own  resources,  he 
displayed,  together  with  the  greatest  military  qualifications, 
and  the  most  exalted  generosity  and  disinterestedness,  all  the 
subtlety  of  a  refined  politician.  On  his  arrival  at  Inverness 
he  found  that  a  discord  had  long  subsisted  between  the 
people  of  the  town  and  some  neighboring  chiefs,  on  an  al- 
leged debt  from  the  one  to  the  other,  and  that  the  two  parties, 
with  their  dependants,  had  assembled  in  arms  to  decide  the 
quarrel.  He  heard  the  allegations  of  the  principals  on  each 
side,  with  an  affectation  of  the  exactness  of  judicial  inquiry, 
and  then,  having  convened  the  entire  mass  of  the  conflicting 
parties  in  public,  reproached  them  with  the  most  cutting 
severity,  that  they,  "who  were  all  equally  friends  to  King 
James,  should  be  preparing,  at  a  time  when  he  most  needed 
their  friendship,  to  draw  those  daggers  against  each  other 
which  ought  to  be  plunged  only  into  the  breasts  of  his  ene- 
mies." He  then  paid  from  his  own  purse  the  debt  in  dis- 
pute ;  and  the  late  litigants,  charmed  by  the  grandeur  of  his 


JOHN   GRAHAM.  123 

conduct,  instantly  placed  themselves  in  a  cordial  union  under 
his  banner.  To  certain  other  chiefs,  upon  whose  estates  the 
Earl  of  Argyle.  who  sought  to  restore  his  importance  by  at- 
taching himself  to  the  revolutionary  party,  had  ancient  claims 
in  law,  and  to  others,  who  had  obtained  grants  from  the 
Crown  of  some  of  that  nobleman's  forfeited  lands,  he  repre- 
sented the  peril  in  which  they  would  be  placed  by  the  suc- 
cess of  William's  enterprise  on  the  British  throne,  and 
gained  them  readily  to  his  beloved  cause.  He  addressed 
himself  with  signal  effect  to  all  the  powerful  men  of  the 
north  of  Scotland ;  fomented  the  angry  feelings  of  those 
who  thought  themselves  neglected  by  the  new  government ; 
flattered  the  vanity  of  those  who,  indifferent  to  the  affairs  of 
either  party,  sought  simply  for  power  and  importance  ;  cor- 
rupted several  officers  of  the  regiments  which  were  in 
preparation  to  be  sent  against  him ;  and  even  managed  to 
maintain  a  constant  correspondence  with  some  members 
of  the  Privy  Council,  by  whom  he  was  regularly  apprised 
of  the  plans  contrived  from  time  to  time  to  counteract  his 
gigantic  efforts.  Nay,  he  contrived  to  detach,  as  it  were  in 
a  moment,  from  Lord  Murray,  heir  to  the  Earl  of  Athol, 
a  body  of  a  thousand  men,  raised  by  that  nobleman  on  his 
father's  estates ;  a  defection  of  Highland  vassals  which  had 
never  till  then  occurred.  "  While  Murray,"  says  my  author, 
"  was  reviewing  them,  they  quitted  their  ranks ;  ran  to  an 
adjoining  brook ;  filled  their  bonnets  with  water ;  drank  to 
King  James's  health ;  and,  with  pipes  playing,  marched  off 
to  Lord  Dundee." 

So  acute  and  experienced  a  commander  as  William  could 
not  be  long  unconscious  of  the  importance  of  such  an  enemy. 
He  despatched  into  Scotland,  at  the  head  of  between  five  and 
six  thousand  picked  troops,  General  M'Kay,  who  had  long 
served  him  in  Holland  with  the  highest  military  reputation. 
In  the  mean  time,  James,  who  had  been  apprised  of  this  dis- 
position, sent  orders  to  Dundee  not  to  hazard  a  battle  till 


124  EDMUND  LODGE. 

the  arrival  of  a  force  from  Ireland,  which  he  now  promised. 
Two  months,  however,  elapsed  before  it  appeared,  which 
Dundee,  burning  with  impatience,  was  necessitated  to  pass 
in  the  mountains,  in  marches  of  unexampled  rapidity,  in 
furious  partial  attacks,  and  masterly  retreats.  It  has  been 
well  said  of  him,  that  "  the  first  messenger  of  his  approach 
was  generally  his  own  army  in  fight,  and  that  the  first  intel- 
ligence of  his  retreat,  brought  accounts  that  he  was  already 
out  of  his  enemy's  reach."  The  long-expected  aid  at  length 
arrived,  in  the  last  week  of  June,  1689,  consisting  only  of 
five  hundred  raw  and  ill -provided  recruits,  but  he  instantly 
made  ready  for  action.  He  advanced  to  meet  M'Kay,  who 
was  preparing  to  invest  the  Castle  of  Blair,  in  Athol,  a 
fortress  the  possession  whereof  enabled  James's  army  to 
maintain  a  free  communication  between  the  northern  and 
southern  Highlands,  and  determined  to  attack  William's 
troops  on  a  small  plain  at  the  mouth  of  the  pass  of  Killi- 
cranky,  after  they  should  have  marched  through  that  re- 
markable defile,  on  their  road  to  Blair.  On  the  16th  of 
July,  at  noon,  M'Kay's  army  arrived  on  the  plain,  and  dis- 
covered Dundee  in  array  on  the  opposite  hills.  He  had 
resolved,  for  reasons  abounding  with  military  genius,  to 
defer  his  onset  till  the  evening,  and  M'Kay,  by  various  ex- 
pedients vainly  tempted  him  during  the  day  to  descend  :  at 
length,  half  an  hour  before  sunset,  his  Highlanders  rushed 
down  with  the  celerity  and  the  fury  of  lions,  and  William's 
army  was  in  an  instant  completely  routed.  Dundee,  who 
had  fought  on  foot,  now  mounted  his  horse,  and  flew  towards 
the  pass,  to  cut  off  their  retreat,  when,  looking  back,  he  found 
that  he  had  outstripped  his  men,  and  was  nearly  alone.  He 
halted,  and,  wavering  his  arm  in  the  air,  pointed  to  the  pass, 
as  a  signal  to  them  to  hasten  their  march,  and  to  occupy  it. 
At  that  moment  a  ball  from  a  musket  aimed  at  him  lodged 
in  his  body,  immediately  under  the  arm  so  raised.  He  fell 
from  his  horse,  and,  fainting,  was  carried  off  the  field ;  but, 


JOHN   GRAHAM.  125 

soon  after  recovering  his  senses  for  a  fe\v  seconds,  he  hastily 
inquired  "  how  things  went,"  and  on  being  answered  "  all 
was  well,"  —  "Then,"  said  he,  "I  am  well,"  and  expired. 
"William,  on  hearing  of  his  death,  said,  "  The  war  in  Scot- 
land is  now  ended." 

The  memory  of  this  heroic  partisan  has  been  cherished  in 
the  hearts,  and  celebrated  by  the  pens,  of  numbers  of  his 
countrymen.  A  poet  thus  pathetically  addresses  his  shade, 
and  bewails  the  loss  sustained  by  Scotland  in  his  death :  — 

"  Ultime  Scotorum,  potuit  quo  sospite  solo 

Libertas  patrise  salva  fuisse  tuse. 
Te  moriente  novos  accepit  Scotia  cives, 

Accepitque  novos  te  moriente  Deos. 
Ilia  tibi  superesse  negat,  tu  non  potes  illi. 

Ergo  Caledonia,  nomen  inane,  vale  1 
Tuque  vale  gentis  priscse  fortissimo  ductor, 

Optimo  Scotorum,  atque  ultimo,  Grame,  vale ! " 

And  Sir  John  Dalrymple  has  left  us  some  particulars  of  his 
military  character  exquisitely  curious  and  interesting.  "  In 
his  marches,"  says  that  author,  "  his  men  frequently  wanted 
bread,  salt,  and  all  liquors  except  water,  during  several  weeks, 
yet  were  ashamed  to  complain,  when  they  observed  that  their 
commander  lived  not  more  delicately  than  themselves.  If 
anything  good  was  brought  him  to  eat,  he  sent  it  to  a  faint 
or  sick  soldier.  If  a  soldier  was  weary,  he  offered  to  carry 
his  arms.  He  kept  those  who  were  with  him  from  sinking 
under  their  fatigues,  not  so  much  by  exhortation  as  by  pre- 
venting them  from  attending  to  their  sufferings ;  for  this 
reason  he  walked  on  foot  with  the  men ;  now  by  the  side  of 
one  clan,  and  anon  by  that  of  another :  he  amused  them  with 
jokes  ;  he  nattered  them  with  his  knowledge  of  their  gen- 
ealogies ;  he  animated  them  by  a  recital  of  the  deeds  of  their 
ancestors,  and  of  the  verses  of  their  bards.  It  was  one  of 
his  maxims  that  no  general  should  fight  with  an  irregular 
army,  unless  he  was  acquainted  with  every  man  he  com- 


126  EDMUND   LODGE. 

manded.  Yet,  with  these  habits  of  familiarity,  the  severity 
of  his  discipline  was  dreadful :  the  only  punishment  he  in- 
flicted was  death.  All  other  punishments,  he  said,  disgraced 
a  gentleman,  and  all  who  were  with  him  were  of  that  rank ; 
but  that  death  was  a  relief  from  the  consciousness  of  crime. 
It  is  reported  of  him  that  having  seen  a  youth  fly  in  his  first 
action,  he  pretended  he  had  sent  him  to  the  rear  on  a  mes- 
sage. The  youth  fled  a  second  time — he  brought  him  to 
the  front  of  the  army,  and  saying  that '  a  gentleman's  son 
ought  not  to  fall  by  the  hands  of  a  common  executioner,'  shot 
him  with  his  own  pistol." 

In  society  he  is  said  to  have  been  as  much  distinguished 
by  a  delicacy  and  softness  of  manners  and  temper,  and  by 
the  most  refined  politeness,  as  he  was  by  his  sternness  in  war. 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  in  his  Romance  of  Old  Mortality,  in  which 
facts  and  fiction  are  blended  with  an  uncommon  felicity, 
gives  us  the  following  picture  of  his  person  and  demeanor, 
evidently  not  the  work  of  fancy,  and  probably  in  substance 
the  result  of  respectable  and  inveterate  tradition  :  — 

"  Graham  of  Claverhouse  was  rather  low  of  stature,  and 
slightly,  though  elegantly,  formed  ;  his  gesture,  language,  and' 
manners,  were  those  of  one  whose  life  had  been  spent  among 
the  noble  and  the  gay.  His  features  exhibited  even  femi- 
nine regularity.  An  oval  face,  a  straight  and  well-formed 
nose,  dark  hazel  eyes,  a  complexion  just  sufficiently  tinged 
with  brown  to  save  it  from  the  charge  of  effeminacy,  a  short 
upper  lip,  curved  upwards  like  that  of  a  Grecian  statue,  and 
slightly  shaded  by  small  mustachios  of  light  brown,  joined  to 
a  profusion  of  long  curled  locks  of  the  same  color,  which  fell 
down  on  each  side  of  his  face,  contributed  to  form  such  a 
countenance  as  limners  like  to  paint,  and  ladies  to  look  upon. 
The  severity  of  his  character,  as  well  as  the  higher  attributes 
of  undaunted  and  enterprising  valor  which  even  his  enemies 
were  compelled  to  admit,  lay  concealed  under  an  exterior 
which  seemed  adapted  to  the  court  or  the  saloon  rather  than 


JOHN   GRAHAM.  127 

to  the  field.  The  same  gentleness  and  gayety  of  expression 
which  reigned  in  his  features  seemed  to  inspire  his  actions 
and  gestures  ;  and,  on  the  whole,  he  was  generally  esteemed, 
at  first  sight,  rather  qualified  to  be  the  votary  of  pleasure 
than  of  ambition.  But  under  this  soft  exterior  was  hidden  a 
spirit  unbounded  in  daring  and  in  aspiring,  yet  cautious  and 
prudent  as  that  of  Machiavel  himself.  Profound  in  politics, 
and  imbued,  of  course,  with  that  disregard  for  individual 
rights  which  its  intrigues  usually  generate,  this  leader  was 
cool  in  pursuing  success,  careless  of  death  himself,  and  ruth- 
less in  inflicting  it  upon  others.  Such  are  the  characters 
formed  in  times  of  civil  discord,  when  the  highest  qualities, 
perverted  by  party  spirit,  and  inflamed  by  habitual  opposi- 
tion, are  too  often  combined  with  vices  and  excesses,  which 
deprive  them  at  once  of  their  merit  and  of  their  lustre." 


THE  BURIAL-MARCH  OF  DUNDEE.* 


BY  W.  EDMONDSTOUNE  AYTOUN. 

SOUND  the  fife,  and  cry  the  slogan,— 
Let  the  pribroch  shake  the  air 
With  its  wild  triumphal  music, 

"Worthy  of  the  freight  we  bear. 
Let  the  ancient  hills  of  Scotland 

Hear  once  more  the  battle-song 
Swell  within  their  glens  and  valleys 

As  the  clansmen  march  along ! 
Never  from  the  field  of  combat, 

Never  from  the  deadly  fray, 
"Was  a  nobler  trophy  carried 

Than  we  bring  with  us  to-day,— 
Never,  since  the  valiant  Douglas 

On  his  dauntless  bosom  bore 
Good  King  Robert's  heart  —  the  priceless  — 

To  our  dear  Redeemer's  shore ! 
Lo  !  we  bring  with  us  the  hero, — 

Lo !  we  bring  the  conquering  Graeme, 
Crowned  as  best  beseems  a  victor 

From  the  altar  of  his  fame ; 
Fresh  and  bleeding  from  the  battle 

Whence  his  spirit  took  its  flight, 

*  John  Graham  of  Claverhouse,  Viscount  Dundee,  was  killed  at 
the  battle  of  Killiecrankie  in  Scotland. 


THE   BURIAL-MARCH   OF  DUNDEE.  129 

Midst  the  crashing  charge  of  squadrons, 

And  the  thunder  of  the  fight ! 
Strike,  I  say,  the  notes  of  triumph, 

As  we  march  o'er  moor  and  lea ! 
Is  there  any  here  will  venture 

To  bewail  our  dead  Dundee  ? 
Let  the  widows  of  the  traitors 

Weep  until  their  eyes  are  dim ! 
Wail  ye  may  full  well  for  Scotland, — 

Let  none  dare  to  mourn  for  him ! 
See  !  above  his  glorious  body  , 

Lies  the  royal  banner's  fold ; 
See  !  his  valiant  blood  is  mingled 

With  its  crimson  and  its  gold. 
See  how  calm  he  looks,  and  stately, 

Like  a  warrior  on  his  shield, 
Waiting  till  the  flush  of  morning 

Breaks  along  the  battle-field ! 
See  —  0  never  more,  my  comrades, 

Shall  we  see  that  falcon  eye 
Redden  with  its  inward  lightning, 

As  the  hour  of  fight  drew  nigh ! 
Never  shall  we  hear  the  voice  that 

Clearer  than  the  trumpet's  call, 
Bade  us  strike  for  King  and  Country. 

Bade  us  win  the  field,  or  fall ! 
On  the  heights  of  Killiecrankie 

Yester-morn  our  army  lay : 
Slowly  rose  the  mist  in  columns 

From  the  river's  broken  way ; 
Hoarsely  roared  the  swollen  torrent, 

And  the  Pass  was  wrapt  hi  gloom, 
When  the  clansmen  rose  together 

From  their  lair  amidst  the  broom. 

6«  I 


130  W.  EDMONDSTOUNE   AYTOUN. 

Then  we  belted  on  our  tartans, 

And  our  bonnets  down  we  drew, 
And  we  felt  our  broadswords'  edges, 

And  we  proved  them  to  be  true  ; 
And  we  prayed  the  prayer  of  soldiers, 

And  we  cried  the  gathering-cry, 
And  we  clasped  the  hands  of  kinsmen, 

And  we  swore  to  do  or  die ! 
Then  our  leader  rode  before  us 

On  his  war-horse  black  as  night,  — 
Well  the  Cameronian  rebels 

Know  that  charger  in  the  fight !  — 
And  a  cry  of  exultation 

From  the  bearded  warriors  rose ; 
For  we  loved  the  house  of  Claver'se, 

And  we  thought  of  good  Montrose. 
But  he  raised  his  hand  for  silence  — 

"  Soldiers !  I  have  sworn  a  vow: 
Ere  the  evening  star  shall  glisten 

On  Schehallion's  lofty  brow, 
Either  we  shall  rest  in  triumph, 

Or  another  of  the  Grammes 
Shall  have  died  in  battle-harness 

For  his  Country  and  King  James ! 
Think  upon  the  Royal  Martyr,  — 

Think  of  what  his  race  endure,  — 
Think  of  him  whom  butchers  murdered 

On  the  field  of  Magus  Muir :  — 
By  his  sacred  blood  I  charge  ye, 

By  the  ruined  hearth  and  shrine,  — 
By  the  blighted  hopes  of  Scotland, 

By  your  injuries  and  mine,  — 
Strike  this  day  as  if  the  anvil 

Lay  beneath  your  blows  the  while, 


THE   BURIAL-MAKCH   OF  DUNDEE.  131 

Be  they  covenanting  traitors, 

Or  the  brood  of  false  Argyle ! 
Strike !  and  drive  the  trembling  rebels 

Backwards  o'er  the  stormy  Forth ; 
Let  them  tell  their  pale  Convention 

How  they  fared  within  the  North. 
Let  them  tell  that  Highland  honor 

Is  not  to  be  bought  nor  sold, 
That  we  scorn  their  prince's  anger 

As  we  loathe  his  foreign  gold. 
Strike !  and  when  the  fight  is  over, 

If  ye  look  in  vain  for  me, 
Where  the  dead  are  lying  thickest, 

Search  for  him  that  was  Dundee  ! " 

Loudly  then  the  hills  re-echoed 

With  our  answer  to  his  call, 
But  a  deeper  echo  sounded 

In  the  bosoms  of  us  all. 
For  the  lands  of  wide  Breadalbane, 

Not  a  man  who  heard  him  speak 
Would  that  day  have  left  the  battle. 

Burning  eye  and  flushing  cheek 
Told  the  clansmen's  fierce  emotion, 

And  they  harder  drew  their  breath  ; 
For  their  souls  were  strong  within  them, 

Stronger  than  the  grasp  of  death. 
Soon  we  heard  a  challenge-trumpet 

Sounding  in  the  Pass  below, 
And  the  distant  tramp  of  horses, 

And  the  voices  of  the  foe : 
Down  we  crouched  amid  the  bracken, 

Till  the  Lowland  ranks  drew  near, 
Panting  like  the  hounds  in  summer, 

When  they  scent  the  stately  deer. 


132  W.  EDMONDSTOUNE  AYTOUN. 

From  the  dark  defile  emerging, 

Next  we  saw  the  squadrons  come, 
Leslie's  foot  and  Leven's  troopers 

Marching  to  the  tuck  of  drum  ; 
Through  the  scattered  wood  of  birches, 

O'er  the  broken  ground  and  heath, 
Wound  the  long  battalion  slowly, 

Till  they  gained  the  plain  beneath  ; 
Then  we  bounded  from  our  covert,  — 

Judge  how  looked  the  Saxons  then, 
When  they  saw  the  rugged  mountains 

Start  to  life  with  armed  men  ! 
Like  a  tempest  down  the  ridges 

Swept  the  hurricane  of  steel, 
Rose  the  slogan  of  Macdonald,  — 

Flashed  the  broadsword  of  Lochiel ! 
Vainly  sped  the  withering  volley 

'Mongst  the  foremost  of  our  band,  — 
On  we  poured  until  we  met  them, 

Foot  to  foot,  and  hand  to  hand. 
Horse  and  man  went  down  like  drift-wood 

When  the  floods  are  black  at  Yule, 
And  their  carcasses  are  whirling 

In  the  Garry's  deepest  pool. 
Horse  and  man  went  down  before  us,  — 

Living  foe  there  tarried  none 
On  the  field  of  Killiecrankie, 

When  that  stubborn  fight  was  done ! 

And  the  evening  star  was  shining 
On  Schehallion's  distant  head, 

When  we  wiped  our  bloody  broadswords, 
And  returned  to  count  the  dead. 

There  we  found  him  gashed  and  gory, 
Stretched  upon  the  cumbered  plain, 


THE   BURIAL-MARCH  OF  DUNDEE.  133 

As  he  told  us  where  to  seek  him, 

In  the  thickest  of  the  slain. 
And  a  smile  was  on  his  visage, 

For  within  his  dying  ear 
Pealed  the  joyful  note  of  triumph, 

And  the  clansmen's  clamorous  cheer : 
So,  amidst  the  battle's  thunder, 

Shot,  and  steel,  and  scorching  flame, 
In  the  glory  of  his  manhood 

Passed  the  spirit  of  the  Graeme  ! 

Open  wide  the  vaults  of  Atholl, 

"Where  the  bones  of  heroes  rest, — 
Open  wide  the  hallowed  portals 

To  receive  another  guest ! 
Last  of  Scots,  and  last  of  freemen, — 

Last  of  all  that  dauntless  race, 
Who  would  rather  die  unsullied 

Than  outlive  the  land's  disgrace ! 
0  thou  lion-hearted  warrior ! 

Reck  not  of  the  after-time ; 
Honor  may  be  deemed  dishonor, 

Loyalty  be  called  a  crime. 
Sleep  in  peace  with  kindred  ashes 

Of  the  noble  and  the  true, 
Hands  that  never  failed  their  country, 

Hearts  that  never  baseness  knew. 
Sleep  !  —  and  till  the  latest  trumpet 

Wakes  the  dead  from  earth  and  sea, 
Scotland  shall  not  boast  a  braver 

Chieftain  than  our  own  Dundee ! 


MIGNON   AS   AN   ANGEL 


BT   GOETHE. 


IT  chanced  that  the  birthday  of  two  twin-sisters,  whose  be- 
havior had  been  always  very  good,  was  near;  I  prom- 
ised that,  on  this  occasion,  the  little  present  they  had  so 
well  deserved  should  be  delivered  to  them  by  an  angel. 
They  were  on  the  stretch  of  curiosity  regarding  this  phenom- 
enon. I  had  chosen  Mignon  for  the  part ;  and  accordingly, 
at  the  appointed  day,  I  had  her  suitably  equipped  hi  a 
long  light  snow-white  dress.  She  was,  of  course,  provided 
with  a  golden  girdle  round  her  waist,  and  a  golden  fillet  on 
her  hair.  I  at  first  proposed  to  omit  the  wings  ;  but  the 
young  ladies  who  were  decking  her,  insisted  on  a  pair  of 
large  golden  pinions,  in  preparing  which  they  meant  to 
show  their  highest  art.  Thus  did  the  strange  apparition, 
with  a  lily  in  the  one  hand,  and  a  little  basket  in  the  other, 
glide  in  among  the  girls  :  she  surprised  even  me.  "  There 
comes  the  angel !  "  said  I.  The  children  all  shrank  back  ; 
at  last  they  cried :  "  It  is  Mignon ! "  yet  they  durst  not 
venture  to  approach  the  wondrous  figure. 

"  Here  are  your  gifts,"  said  she,  putting  down  the  basket. 
They  gathered  around  her,  they  viewed,  they  felt,  they 
questioned  her. 

"  Art  though  an  angel  ?  "  asked  one  of  them. 

"  I  wish  I  were,"  said  Mignon. 

«  Why  dost  thou  bear  a  lily  ?  " 


MIGNON  AS  AN  ANGEL.  135 

"  So  pure  and  so  open  should  my  heart  be ;  then  were  I 
happy." 

"  What  wings  are  these  ?    Let  us  see  them ! " 

"They  represent  far  finer  ones,  which  are  not  yet  un- 
folded." 

And  thus  significantly  did  she  answer  all  their  other 
childlike,  innocent  inquiries.  The  little  party  having  satis- 
fied their  curiosity,  and  the  impression  of  the  show  begin- 
ning to  abate,  we  were  for  proceeding  to  undress  the  little 
angel.  This,  however,  she  resisted  :  she  took  her  cithern ; 
she  seated  herself  here,  on  this  high  writing-table,  and  sang 
a  little  song  with  touching  grace :  — 

Such  let  me  seem,  till  such  I  be ; 

Take  not  my  snow-white  dress  away ; 
Soon  from  this  dusk  of  earth  I  flee 

Up  to  the  glittering  lands  of  day. 

There  first  a  little  space  I  rest, 
Then  wake  so  glad,  to  scene  so  kind ; 

In  earthly  robes  no  longer  drest, 
This  band,  this  girdle  left  behind. 

And  those  calm  shining  sons  of  morn, 

They  ask  not  who  is  maid  or  boy  ; 
No  robes,  no  garments  there  are  worn, 

Our  body  pure  from  sin's  alloy. 

Through  little  life  not  much  I  toiled, 
Yet  anguish  long  this  heart  has  wrung, 

Untimely  woe  my  blossom  spoiled ; 
Make  me  again  forever  young ! 


THE  CAGE  AT  CRANFORD. 


BY  MES.   GASKELL. 

HAVE  I  told  you  anything  about  my  friends  at  Cran- 
ford  since  the  year  1856?  I  think  not. 

You  remember  the  Gordons,  don't  you  ?  She  that  was 
Jessie  Brown,  who  married  her  old  love,  Major  Gordon  : 
and  from  being  poor  became  quite  a  rich  lady :  but  for  all 
that  never  forgot  any  of  her  old  friends  in  Cranford. 

Well !  the  Gordons  were  travelling  abroad,  for  they  were 
very  fond  of  travelling ;  people  who  have  had  to  spend  part 
of  their  lives  in  a  regiment  always  are,  I  think.  They  were 
now  at  Paris,  in  May,  1856,  and  were  going  to  stop  there, 
and  in  the  neighborhood  all  summer,  but  Mr.  Ludovic  was 
coming  to  England  soon ;  so  Mrs.  Gordon  wrote  me  word. 
I  was  glad  she  told  me,  for  just  then  I  was  waiting  to  make 
a  little  present  to  Miss  Pole,  with  whom  I  was  staying ;  so 
I  wrote  to  Mrs.  Gordon,  and  asked  her  to  choose  me  out 
something  pretty  and  new  and  fashionable,  that  would  be 
acceptable  to  Miss  Pole.  Miss  Pole  had  just  been  talking 
a  great  deal  about  Mrs.  Fitz  Adam's  caps  being  so  unfash- 
ionable, which  I  suppose  made  me  put  in  that  word  fashion- 
able ;  but  afterwards  I  wished  I  had  sent  to  say  my  present 
was  not  to  be  too  fashionable ;  for  there  is  such  a  thing,  I 
can  assure  you !  The  price  of  my  present  was  not  to  be 
more  than  twenty  shillings,  but  that  is  a  very  handsome  sum 
if  you  put  it  in  that  way,  though  it  may  not  sound  so  much 
if  you  only  call  it  a  sovereign. 


THE    CAGE   AT    CRANFOBD.  137 

Mrs.  Gordon  wrote  back  to  me,  pleased,  as  she  always 
was,  with  doing  anything  for  her  old  friends.  She  told  me 
she  had  been  out  for  a  day's  shopping  before  going  into  the 
country,  and  had  got  a  cage  for  herself  of  the  newest  and 
most  elegant  description,  and  had  thought  that  she  could  not 
do  better  than  get  another  like  it  as  my  present  for  Miss 
Pole,  as  cages  were  so  much  better  made  in  Paris  than  any- 
where else.  I  was  rather  dismayed  when  I  read  this  letter, 
for  however  pretty  a  cage  might  be,  it  was  something  for 
Miss  Pole's  own  self,  and  not  for  her  parrot,  that  I  had  in- 
tended to  get.  Here  had  I  been  finding  ever  so  many  rea- 
sons against  her  buying  a  new  cap  at  Johnson's  fashion-show, 
because  I  thought  that  the  present  which  Mrs.  Gordon  was 
to  choose  for  me  in  Paris  might  turn  out  to  be  an  elegant 
and  fashionable  head-dress  ;  a  kind  of  cross  between  a  tur- 
ban and  a  cap,  as  I  see  those  from  Paris  mostly  are ;  and 
now  I  had  to  veer  round,  and  advise  her  to  go  as  fast  as  she 
could,  and  secure  Mr.  Johnson's  cap  before  any  other  pur- 
chaser snatched  it  up.  But  Miss  Pole  was  too  sharp  for  me. 

"  Why,  Mary,"  said  she,  "  it  was  only  yesterday  you  were 
running  down  that  cap  like  anything.  You  said,  you  know, 
that  lilac  was  too  old  a  color  for  me ;  and  green  too  young ; 
and  that  the  mixture  was  very  unbecoming." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  I ;  "  but  I  have  thought  better  of  it 
I  thought  about  it  a  great  deal  last  night,  and  I  think  —  I 
thought — they  would  neutralize  each  other;  and  the  shad- 
ows of  any  color  are,  you  know  —  something  I  know  —  com- 
plementary colors."  I  was  not  sure  of  my  own  meaning, 
but  I  had  an  idea  in  my  head,  though  I  could  not  express  it. 
She  took  me  up  shortly. 

"  Child,  you  don't  know  what  you  are  saying.  And  be- 
sides, I  don't  want  compliments  at  my  time  of  life.  I  lay 
awake,  too,  thinking  of  the  cap.  I  only  buy  one  ready-made 
once  a  year,  and  of  course  it 's  a  matter  for  consideration ; 
and  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  you  were  quite  right." 


138  MRS.    GASKELL. 

"0  dear  Miss  Pole!  I  was  quite  wrong;  if  you  only 
knew  —  I  did  think  it  a  very  pretty  cap  —  only  —  " 

"Well!  do  just  finish  what  you've  got  to  say.  You're 
almost  as  bad  as  Miss  Matty  in  your  way  of  talking,  without 
being  half  as  good  as  she  is  in  other  ways ;  though  I  'm  very 
fond  of  you,  Mary,  I  don't  mean  I  am  not ;  but  you  must  see 
you  're  very  off  and  on,  and  very  muddle-headed.  It 's  the 
truth,  so  you  will  not  mind  my  saying  so." 

It  was  just  because  it  did  seem  like  the  truth  at  that  time 
that  I  did  mind  her  saying  so ;  and,  in  despair,  I  thought  I 
would  tell  her  all. 

"  I  did  not  mean  what  I  said ;  I  don't  think  lilac  too  old 
or  green  too  young :  and  I  think  the  mixture  very  becoming 
to  you ;  and  I  think  you  will  never  get  such  a  pretty  cap 
again,  at  least  in  Cranford."  It  was  fully  out,  so  far,  at 
least. 

"  Then,  Mary  Smith,  will  you  tell  me  what  you  did  mean, 
by  speaking  as  you  did,  and  convincing  me  against  my  will, 
and  giving  me  a  bad  night  ?  " 

"  I  meant  —  O  Miss  Pole,  I  meant  to  surprise  you  with 
a  present  from  Paris ;  and  I  thought  it  would  be  a  cap. 
Mrs.  Gordon  was  to  choose  it,^nd  Mr.  Ludovic  to  bring  it. 
I  dare  say  it  is  in  England  now ;  only  it 's  not  a  cap.  And 
I  did  not  want  you  to  buy  Johnson's  cap,  when  I  thought  I 
was  getting  another  for  you." 

Miss  Pole  found  this  speech  "  muddle-headed,"  I  have  no 
doubt,  though  she  did  not  say  so,  only  making  an  odd  noise 
of  perplexity.  I  went  on :  "I  wrote  to  Mrs.  Gordon,  and 
asked  her  to  get  you  a  present  —  something  new  and  pretty. 
I  meant  it  to  be  a  dress,  but  I  suppose  I  did  not  say  so ;  I 
thought  it  would  be  a  cap,  for  Paris  is  so  famous  for  caps, 
and  it  is  —  " 

"  You  're  a  good  girl,  Mary,"  (I  was  past  thirty,  but  did 
not  object  to  being  called  a  girl ;  and,  indeed,  I  generally 
felt  like  a  girl  at  Cranford,  where  everybody  was  so  much 


THE   CAGE   AT   CRANFORD.  139 

older  than  I  was,)  "  but  when  you  want  a  thing,  say  what 
you  want ;  it  is  the  best  way  in  general.  And  now  I  sup- 
pose Mrs.  Gordon  has  bought  something  quite  different  ?  — 
a  pair  of  shoes,  I  dare  say,  for  people  talk  a  deal  of  Paris 
shoes.  Anyhow,  I  'm  just  as  much  obliged  to  you,  Mary, 
my  dear.  Only  you  should  not  go  and  spend  your  money 
on  me." 

"  It  was  not  much  money  ;  and  it  was  not  a  pair  of  shoes. 
You  '11  let  me  go  and  get  the  cap,  won't  you  ?  It  was  so 
pretty  —  somebody  will  be  sure  to  snatch  it  up." 

"  I  don't  like  getting  a  cap  that 's  sure  to  be  unbecoming." 

"  But  it  is  not ;  it  was  not.  I  never  saw  you  look  so  well 
in  anything,"  said  I. 

"  Mary,  Mary,  remember  who  is  the  father  of  lies !  " 

"  But  he  's  not  my  father,"  exclaimed  I,  in  a  hurry,  for  I 
saw  Mrs.  Fitz  Adam  go  down  the  street  in  the  direction  of 
Johnson's  shop.  "  I  '11  eat  my  words ;  they  were  all  false : 
only  just  let  me  run  down  and  buy  you  that  cap  —  that 
pretty  cap." 

"  "Well !  run  off,  child.  I  liked  it  myself  till  you  put  me 
out  of  taste  with  it." 

I  brought  it  back  in  triumph  from  under  Mrs.  FitzAdam's 
very  nose,  as  she  was  hanging  hi  meditation  over  it ;  and 
the  more  we  saw  of  it,  the  more  we  felt  pleased  with  our 
purchase.  We  turned  it  on  this  side,  and  we  turned  it  on 
that ;  and  though  we  hurried  it  away  into  Miss  Pole's  bed- 
room at  the  sound  of  a  double  knock  at  the  door,  when  we 
found  it  was  only  Miss  Matty  and  Mr.  Peter,  Miss  Pole 
could  not  resist  the  opportunity  of  displaying  it,  and  said  in 
a  solemn  way  to  Miss  Matty :  "  Can  I  speak  to  you  for  a 
few  minutes  in  private  ?  "  And  I  knew  feminine  delicacy 
too  well  to  explain  what  this  grave  prelude  was  to  lead  to ; 
aware  how  immediately  Miss  Matty's  anxious  tremor  would 
be  allayed  by  the  sight  of  the  cap.  I  had  to  go  on  talk- 
ing to  Mr.  Peter,  however,  when  I  would  far  rather  have 


140  MRS.    GASKELL. 

been  in  the  bedroom,  and  heard  the  observations  and  com- 
ments. 

We  talked  of  the  new  cap  all  day  ;  what  gowns  it  would 
suit ;  whether  a  certain  bow  was  not  rather  too  coquettish 
for  a  woman  of  Miss  Pole's  age.  "No  longer  young,"  as 
she  called  herself,  after  a  little  struggle  with  the  words, 
though  at  sixty-five  she  need  not  have  blushed  as  if  she 
were  telling  a  falsehood.  But  at  last  the  cap  was  put  away, 
and  with  a  wrench  we  turned  our  thoughts  from  the  subject 
"We  had  been  silent  for  a  little  while,  each  at  our  work  with 
a  candle  between  us,  when  Miss  Pole  began  :  — 

"  It  was  very  kind  of  you,  Mary,  to  think  of  giving  me  a 
present  from  Paris." 

"  Oh,  I  was  only  too  glad  to  be  able  to  get  you  some- 
thing! I  hope  you  will  like  it,  though  it  is  not  what  I 
expected." 

"  I  am  sure  I  shall  like  it.  And  a  surprise  is  always  so 
pleasant." 

"  Yes ;  but  I  think  Mrs.  Gordon  has  made  a  very  odd 
choice." 

"  I  wonder  what  it  is.  I  don't  like  to  ask,  but  there 's  a 
great  deal  in  anticipation ;  I  remember  hearing  dear  Miss 
Jenkyns  say  that '  anticipation  was  the  soul  of  enjoyment,' 
or  something  like  that.  Now  there  is  no  anticipation  in  a 
surprise  ;  that 's  the  worst  of  it." 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  what  it  is  ?  " 

"  Just  as  you  like,  my  dear.  If  it  is  any  pleasure  to  you, 
I  am  quite  willing  to  hear." 

"  Perhaps  I  had  better  not.  It  is  something  quite  dif- 
ferent to  what  I  expected,  and  meant  to  have  got ;  and  I  'm 
not  sure  if  I  like  it  as  well." 

"  Relieve  your  mind,  if  you  like,  Mary.  In  all  dis- 
appointments sympathy  is  a  great  balm." 

"  Well,  then,  it 's  something  not  for  you  ;  it 's  for  Polly. 
It 's  a  cage.  Mrs.  Gordon  says  they  make  such  pretty  ones 
in  Paris." 


THE    CAGE  AT   CRANFORD.  141 

I  could  see  that  Miss  Pole's  first  emotion  was  disappoint- 
ment. But  she  was  very  fond  of  her  cockatoo,  and  the 
thought  of  his  smartness  in  his  new  habitation  made  her  be 
reconciled  in  a  moment ;  besides  that  she  was  really  grate- 
ful to  me  for  having  planned  a  present  for  her. 

"  Polly !  Well,  yes ;  his  old  cage  is  very  shabby ;  he  is 
eo  continually  pecking  at  it  with  his  sharp  bill.  I  dare  say 
Mrs.  Gordon  noticed  it  when  she  called  here  last  October. 
I  shall  always  think  of  you,  Mary,  when  I  see  him  in  it. 
Now  we  can  have  him  in  the  drawing-room,  for  I  dare  say 
a  French  cage  will  be  quite  an  ornament  to  the  room." 

And  so  she  talked  on,  till  we  worked  ourselves  up  into 
high  delight  at  the  idea  of  Polly  in  his  new  abode,  present- 
able in  it  even  to  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Jamieson.  The  next 
morning  Miss  Pole  said  she  had  been  dreaming  of  Polly 
with  her  new  cap  on  his  head,  while  she  herself  sat  on  a 
perch  in  the  new  cage  and  admired  him.  Then,  as  if 
ashamed  of  having  revealed  the  fact  of  imagining  "such 
arrant  nonsense  "  in  her  sleep,  she  passed  on  rapidly  to  the 
philosophy  of  dreams,  quoting  some  book  she  had  lately 
been  reading,  which  was  either  too  deep  in  itself,  or  too 
confused  in  her  repetition  for  me  to  understand  it.  After 
breakfast,  we  had  the  cap  out  again ;  and  that  in  its  differ- 
ent aspects  occupied  us  for  an  hour  or  so ;  and  then,  as  it 
was  a  fine  day,  we  turned  into  the  garden,  where  Polly  was 
hung  on  a  nail  outside  the  kitchen  window.  He  clamored 
and  screamed  at  the  sight  of  his  mistress,  who  went  to  look 
for  an  almond  for  him.  I  examined  his  cage  meanwhile, 
old  discolored  wicker-work,  clumsily  made  by  a  Cranford 
basket-maker.  I  took  out  Mrs.  Gordon's  letter ;  it  was 
dated  the  loth,  and  this  was  the  20th,  for  I  had  kept  it 
Becret  for  two  days  in  my  pocket.  Mr.  Ludovic  was  on 
the  point  of  setting  out  for  England  when  she  wrote. 

"  Poor  Polly !  "  said  I,  as  Miss  Pole,  returning,  fed  him 
with  the  almond. 


142  MRS.   GASKELL. 

"Ah!  Polly  does  not  know  what  a  pretty  cage  he  is 
going  to  have,"  said  she,  talking  to  him  as  she  would  have 
done  to  a  child ;  and  then  turning  to  me,  she  asked  when  I 
thought  it  would  come  ?  We  reckoned  up  dates,  and  made 
out  that  it  might  arrive  that  very  day.  So  she  called  to  her 
little  stupid  servant-maiden  Fanny,  and  bade  her  go  out  and 
buy  a  great  brass-headed  nail,  very  strong,  strong  enough  to 
bear  Polly  and  the  new  cage,  and  we  all  three  weighed  the 
cage  in  our  hands,  and  on  her  return  she  was  to  come  up 
into  the  drawing-room  with  the  nail  and  a  hammer. 

Fanny  was  a  long  time,  as  she  always  was,  over  her  er- 
rands ;  but  as  soon  as  she  came  back,  we  knocked  the  nail, 
with  solemn  earnestness,  into  the  house-wall,  just  outside  the 
drawing-room  window ;  for,  as  Miss  Pole  observed,  when  I 
was  not  there  she  had  no  one  to  talk  to,  and  as  in  summer- 
time she  generally  sat  with  the  window  open,  she  could  com- 
bine two  purposes,  the  giving  air  and  sun  to  Polly-Cock- 
atoo, and  the  having  his  agreeable  companionship  in  her 
solitary  hours. 

"  When  it  rains,  my  dear,  or  even  in  a  very  hot  sun,  I 
shall  take  the  cage  in.  I  would  not  have  your  pretty  pres- 
ent spoilt  for  the  world.  It  was  very  kind  of  you  to  think 
of  it ;  I  am  quite  come  round  to  liking  it  better  than  any 
present  of  mere  dress ;  and  dear  Mrs.  Gordon  has  shown 
all  her  usual  pretty  observation  in  remembering  my  Polly- 
Cockatoo." 

"  Polly-Cockatoo  "  was  his  grand  name  ;  I  had  only  once 
or  twice  heard  him  spoken  of  by  Miss  Pole  in  this  formal 
manner,  except  when  she  was  speaking  to  the  servants ; 
then  she  always  gave  him  his  full  designation,  just  as  most 
people  call  their  daughters  Miss,  in  speaking  of  them  to 
strangers  or  servants.  But  since  Polly  was  to  have  a  new 
cage,  and  all  the  way  from  Paris  too,  Miss  Pole  evidently 
thought  it  necessary  to  treat  him  with  unusual  respect. 

We  were  obliged  to  go  out  to  pay  some  calls ;  but  we  left 


THE    CAGE  AT   CRANFORD.  143 

strict  orders  with  Fanny  what  to  do  if  the  cage  arrived  in 
our  absence,  as  (we  had  calculated)  it  might.  Miss  Pole 
stood  ready  bonneted  and  shawled  at  the  kitchen  door,  I 
behind  her,  and  cook  behind  Fanny,  each  of  us  listening  to 
the  conversation  of  the  other  two. 

"And  Fanny,  mind  if  it  comes  you  coax  Polly- Cockatoo 
nicely  into  it.  He  is  very  particular,  and  may  be  attached 
to  his  old  cage,  though  it  is  so  shabby.  Remember,  birds 
have  their  feelings  as  much  as  we  have !  Don't  hurry  him 
in  making  up  his  mind." 

"  Please,  ma'am,  I  think  an  almond  would  help  him  to 
get  over  his  feelings,"  said  Fanny,  dropping  a  curtsey  at 
every  speech,  as  she  had  been  taught  to  do  at  her  charity 
school. 

"  A  very  good  idea,  very.  If  I  have  my  keys  in  my 
pocket  I  will  give  you  an  almond  for  him.  I  think  he  is 
sure  to  like  the  view  up  the  street  from  the  window;  he 
likes  seeing  people,  I  think." 

"  It 's  but  a  dull  look-out  into  the  garden ;  nowt  but 
dumb  flowers,"  said  cook,  touched  by  this  allusion  to  the 
cheerfulness  of  the  street,  as  contrasted  with  the  view  from 
her  own  kitchen  window. 

"  It 's  a  very  good  look-out  for  busy  people,"  said  Miss 
Pole,  severely.  And  then,  feeling  she  was  likely  to  get 
the  worst  of  it  in  an  encounter  with  her  old  servant,  she 
withdrew  with  meek  dignity,  being  deaf  to  some  sharp  re- 
ply ;  and  of  course  I,  being  bound  to  keep  order,  was  deaf 
too.  If  the  truth  must  be  told,  we  rather  hastened  our 
steps,  until  we  had  banged  the  street  door  behind  us. 

We  called  on  Miss  Matty,  of  course ;  and  then  on  Mrs. 
Hoggins.  It  seemed  as  if  ill-luck  would  have  it  that  we 
went  to  the  only  two  households  of  Cranford  where  there 
was  the  encumbrance  of  a  man,  and  in  both  places  the  man 
was  where  he  ought  not  to  have  been  —  namely,  in  his  own 
house,  and  in  the  way.  Miss  Pole  —  out  of  civility  to  me, 


144  MRS.    GASKELL. 

and  because  she  really  was  full  of  the  new  cage  for  Polly, 
and  because  we  all  in  Cranford  relied  on  the  sympathy  of 
our  neighbors  in  the  veriest  trifle  that  interested  us  —  told 
Miss  Matty,  and  Mr.  Peter,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hoggins ;  he 
was  standing  in  the  drawing-room,  booted  and  spurred,  and 
eating  his  hunk  of  bread  and  cheese  in  the  very  presence 
of  his  aristocratic  wife,  my  lady  that  was.  As  Miss  Pole 
said  afterwards,  if  refinement  was  not  to  be  found  in  Cran- 
ford, blessed  as  it  was  with  so  many  scions  of  county 
families,  she  did  not  know  where  to  meet  with  it.  Bread 
and  cheese  in  a  drawing-room !  Onions  next. 

But  for  all  Mr.  Hoggins's  vulgarity,  Miss  Pole  told  him 
of  the  present  she  was  about  to  receive. 

"  Only  think  !  a  new  cage  for  Polly  —  Polly  —  Polly- 
Cockatoo,  you  know,  Mr.  Hoggins.  You  remember  him, 
and  the  bite  he  gave  me  once  because  he  wanted  to  be  put 
back  in  his  cage,  pretty  bird  ?  " 

"  I  only  hope  the  new  cage  will  be  strong  as  well  as 

pretty,  for  I  must  say  a "  He  caught  a  look  from  his 

wife,  I  think,  for  he  stopped  short.  "  Well,  we  're  old 
friends,  Polly  and  I,  and  he  put  some  practice  in  my  way 
once.  I  shall  be  up  the  street  this  afternoon,  and  perhaps 
I  shall  step  in  and  see  this  smart  Parisian  cage." 

"  Do ! "  said  Miss  Pole,  eagerly.  "  Or,  if  you  are  in  a 
hurry,  look  up  at  my  drawing-room  window ;  if  the  cage 
is  come,  it  will  be  hanging  out  there,  and  Polly  in  it." 

We  had  passed  the  omnibns  that  met  the  train  from 
London  some  time  ago,  so  we  were  not  surprised  as  we  re- 
turned home  to  see  Fanny  half  out  of  the  window,  and 
cook  evidently  either  helping  or  hindering  her.  Then  they 
both  took  their  heads  in ;  but  there  was  no  cage  hanging 
up.  We  hastened  up  the  steps. 

Both  Fanny  and  the  cook  met  us  in  the  passage. 

"  Please,  ma'am,"  said  Fanny,  "  there 's  no  bottom  to  the 
cage,  and  Polly  would  fly  away." 


THE   CAGE   AT   CRANFORD.  145 

"  And  there 's  no  top,"  exclaimed  cook.  "  He  might  get 
out  at  the  top  quite  easy." 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  Miss  Pole,  brushing  past,  thinking 
no  doubt  that  her  superior  intelligence  was  all  that  was 
needed  to  set  things  to  rights.  On  the  ground  lay  a  bun- 
dle, or  a  circle  of  hoops,  neatly  covered  over  with  calico,  no 
more  like  a  cage  for  Polly-Cockatoo  than  I  am  like  a  cage. 
Cook  took  something  up  between  her  finger  and  thumb,  and 
lifted  the  unsightly  present  from  Paris.  How  I  wish  it  had 
stayed  there !  —  but  foolish  ambition  has  brought  people  to 
ruin  before  now;  and  my  twenty  shillings  are  gone,  sure 
enough,  and  there  must  be  some  use  or  some  ornament  in- 
tended by  the  maker  of  the  thing  before  us. 

"Don't  you  think  it's  a  mousetrap,  ma'am?"  asked 
Fanny,  dropping  her  little  curtsey. 

For  reply,  the  cook  lifted  up  the  machine,  and  showed 
how  easily  mice  might  run  out ;  and  Fanny  shrank  back 
abashed.  Cook  was  evidently  set  against  the  new  inven- 
tion, and  muttered  about  its  being  all  of  a  piece  with 
French  things  —  French  cooks,  French  plums,  (nasty  dried- 
up  things,)  French  rolls  (as  had  no  substance  in  'em.) 

Miss  Pole's  good  manners,  and  desire  of  making  the  best 
of  things  in  my  presence,  induced  her  to  try  and  drown 
cook's  mutterings, 

"  Indeed,  I  think  it  will  make  a  very  nice  cage  for  Polly- 
Cockatoo.  How  pleased  he  will  be  to  go  from  one  hoop  to 
another,  just  like  a  ladder,  and  with  a  board  or  two  at  the 
bottom,  and  nicely  tied  up  at  the  top " 

Fanny  was  struck  with  a  new  idea. 

"  Please,  ma'am,  my  sister-in-law  has  got  an  aunt  as  lives 
lady's-maid  with  Sir  John's  daughter  —  Miss  Arley.  And 
they  did  say  as  she  wore  iron  petticoats  all  made  of 
hoops " 

"  Xonsense,  Fanny ! "  we  all  cried ;  for  such  a  thing  had 
not  been  heard  of  in  all  Drumble,  let  alone  Cranford,  and  I 
7  j 


146  MRS.   GASKELL. 

was  rather  looked  upon  in  the  light  of  a  fast  young  woman 
by  all  the  laundresses  of  Cranford,  because  I  had  two  corded 
petticoats. 

"  Go  mind  thy  business,  wench,"  said  cook,  with  the  ut- 
most contempt ;  "  I  '11  warrant  we  '11  manage  th'  cage  without 
thy  help." 

"It  is  near  dinner-time,  Fanny,  and  the  cloth  not  laid," 
said  Miss  Pole,  hoping  the  remark  might  cut  two  ways ; 
but  cook  had  no  notion  of  going.  She  stood  on  the  bottom 
step  of  the  stairs,  holding  the  Paris  perplexity  aloft  in  the 
air. 

"  It  might  do  for  a  meat-safe,"  said  she.  "  Cover  it  o'er 
wi'  canvas,  to  keep  th'  flies  out.  It  is  a  good  framework,  I 
reckon,  anyhow ! "  She  held  her  head  on  one  side,  like  a 
connoisseur  in  meat-safes,  as  she  was. 

Miss  Pole  said,  "  Are  you  sure  Mrs.  Gordon  called  it  a 
cage,  Mary?  Because  she  is  a  woman  of  her  word,  and 
would  not  have  called  it  so  if  it  was  not." 

"  Look  here  ;  I  have  the  letter  in  my  pocket." 

" '  I  have  wondered  how  I  could  best  fulfil  your  commis- 
sion for  me  to  purchase  something  to  the  value  of  —  um, 
um,  never  mind  —  'fashionable  and  pretty  for  dear  Miss 
Pole,  and  at  length  I  have  decided  upon  one  of  the  new 
kind  of  "  cages  " '  (look  here,  Miss  Pole  ;  here  is  the  word, 
C  A  G  E), '  which  are  made  so  much  lighter  and  more  ele- 
gant in  Paris  than  in  England.  Indeed,  I  am  not  sure  if 
they  have  ever  reached  you,  for  it  is  not  a  month  since  I 
saw  the  first  of  the  kind  in  Paris.' " 

"Does  she  say  anything  about  Polly-Cockatoo?"  asked 
Miss  Pole.  "  That  would  settle  the  matter  at  once,  as 
showing  that  she  had  him  in  her  mind." 

"  No  —  nothing." 

Just  then  Fanny  came  along  the  passage  with  the  tray 
full  of  dinner  things  in  her  hands.  When  she  had  put 
them  down,  she  stood  at  the  door  of  the  dining-room  taking 


THE   CAGE  AT   CRANFORD.  147 

a  distant  view  of  the  article.  "  Please,  ma'am,  it  looks  like 
a  petticoat  without  any  stuff  in  it ;  indeed  it  does,  if  I  'm  to 
be  whipped  for  saying  it." 

But  she  only  drew  down  upon  herself  a  fresh  objurgation 
from  the  cook  ;  and  sorry  and  annoyed,  I  seized  the  oppor- 
tunity of  taking  the  thing  out  of  cook's  hand,  and  carrying 
it  up  stairs,  for  it  was  full  time  to  get  ready  for  dinner.  But 
we  had  very  little  appetite  for  our  meal,  and  kept  constantly 
making  suggestions,  one  to  the  other,  as  to  the  nature  and 
purpose  of  this  Paris  "  cage,"  but  as  constantly  snubbing 
poor  little  Fanny's  reiteration  of  "  Please,  ma'am,  I  do  be- 
lieve it 's  a  kind  of  petticoat  —  indeed  I  do."  At  length 
Miss  Pole  turned  upon  her  with  almost  as  much  vehemence 
as  cook  had  done,  only  in  choicer  language. 

"  Don't  be  so  silly,  Fanny.  Do  you  think  ladies  are  like 
children,  and  must  be  put  in  go-carts  ;  or  need  wire-guards 
like  fires  to  surround  them ;  or  can  get  warmth  out  of  bits  of 
whalebone  and  steel ;  a  likely  thing  indeed !  Don't  keep 
talking  about  what  you  don't  understand." 

So  our  maiden  was  mute  for  the  rest  of  the  meal.  After 
dinner  we  had  Polly  brought  up  stairs  in  her  old  cage,  and  I 
held  out  the  new  one,  and  we  turned  it  about  in  every  way. 
At  length  Miss  Pole  said  :  — 

"  Put  Polly-Cockatoo  back,  and  shut  him  up  in  his  cage. 
You  hold  this  French  thing  up,"  (alas !  that  my  present 
should  be  called  a  "  thing,")  "  and  I  '11  sew  a  bottom  on  to 
it.  I  '11  lay  a  good  deal,  they  've  forgotten  to  sew  in  the 
bottom  before  sending  it  off."  So  I  held  and  she  sewed ; 
and  then  she  held,  and  1  sewed,  till  it  was  all  done.  Just 
as  we  had  put  Polly-Cockatoo  in,  and  were  closing  up  the 
top  with  a  pretty  piece  of  old  yellow  ribbon  —  and,  indeed, 
it  was  not  a  bad-looking  cage  after  all  our  trouble  —  Mr. 
Hoggins  came  up  stairs,  having  been  seen  by  Fanny  before 
he  had  time  to  knock  at  the  door. 

"  Hallo  ! "  said  he,  almost  tumbling  over  us,  as  we  were 
sitting  on  the  floor  at  our  work.  "  What 's  this  ?  " 


148  MRS.    GASKELL. 

"  It 's  this  pretty  present  for  Polly- Cockatoo,"  said  Miss 
Pole,  raising  herself  up  with  as  much  dignity  as  she  could, 
"  that  Mary  has  had  sent  from  Paris  for  me."  Miss  Pole 
was  in  great  spirits  now  we  had  got  Polly  in  ;  I  can 't  say 
that  I  was. 

Mr.  Hoggins  began  to  laugh  in  his  boisterous  vulgar  way. 

"  For  Polly  —  ha !  ha !  It 's  meant  for  you,  Miss  Pole 
—  ha  !  ha !  It 's  a  new  invention  to  hold  your  gowns  out  — 
ha!  ha!" 

"  Mr.  Hoggins !  you  may  be  a  surgeon,  and  a  very  clever 
one,  but  nothing  —  not  even  your  profession  —  gives  you  a 
right  to  be  indecent." 

Miss  Pole  was  thoroughly  roused,  and  I  trembled  in  my 
shoes.  But  Mr.  Hoggins  only  laughed  the  more.  Polly 
screamed  in  concert,  but  Miss  Pole  stood  in  stiff  rigid  pro- 
priety, very  red  in  the  face. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Pole,  I  am  sure.  But  I  am 
pretty  certain  I  am  right.  It's  no  indecency  that  I  can 
see ;  my  wife  and  Mrs.  Fitz  Adam  take  in  a  Paris  fashion- 
book  between  'em,  and  I  can't  help  seeing  the  plates  of 
fashions  sometimes  —  ha !  ha !  ha !  Look,  Polly  has  got 
out  of  his  queer  prison  —  ha !  ha !  ha !  " 

Just  then  Mr.  Peter  came  in ;  Miss  Matty  was  so  curious 
to  know  if  the  expected  present  had  arrived.  Mr.  Hoggins 
took  him  by  the  arm,  and  pointed  to  the  poor  thing  lying 
on  the  ground,  but  could  not  explain  for  laughing.  Miss 
Pole  said :  — 

"  Although  I  am  not  accustomed  to  give  an  explanation 
of  my  conduct  to  gentlemen,  yet,  being  insulted  in  my  own 
house  by  —  by  Mr.  Hoggins,  I  must  appeal  to  the  brother 
of  my  old  friend  —  my  very  oldest  friend.  Is  this  article 
a  lady's  petticoat,  or  a  bird's  cage  ?  " 

She  held  it  up  as  she  made  this  solemn  inquiry.  Mr. 
Hoggins  seized  the  moment  to  leave  the  room,  in  shame,  as 
I  supposed,  but,  in  reality,  to  fetch  his  wife's  fashion-book ; 


THE   CAGE  AT   CRANFORD.  149 

and,  before  I  had  completed  the  narration  of  the  story  of 
my  unlucky  commission,  he  returned,  and,  holding  the 
fashion-plate  open  by  the  side  of  the  extended  article, 
demonstrated  the  identity  of  the  two. 

But  Mr.  Peter  had  always  a  smooth  way  of  turning  off 
anger,  by  either  his  fun  or  a  compliment.  "  It  is  a  cage," 
said  he,  bowing  to  Miss  Pole ;  "  but  it  is  a  cage  for  an 
angel,  instead  of  a  bird  !  Come  along,  Hoggins,  I  want  to 
speak  to  you ! " 

And,  with  an  apology,  he  took  the  offending  and  victo- 
rious surgeon  out  of  Miss  Pole's  presence.  For  a  good 
while  we  said  nothing ;  and  we  were  now  rather  shy  of 
little  Fanny's  superior  wisdom  when  she  brought  up  tea. 
But  towards  night  our  spirits  revived,  and  we  were  quite 
ourselves  again,  when  Miss  Pole  proposed  that  we  should 
cut  up  the  pieces  of  steel  or  whalebone  —  which,  to  do  them 
justice,  were  very  elastic  —  and  make  ourselves  two  good 
comfortable  English  calashes  out  of  them  with  the  aid  of  a 
piece  of  dyed  silk  which  Miss  Pole  had  by  her. 


VERSES  ON  SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY. 

BY  EDMUND    SPENSEK. 

YOU  knew  —  who  knew  not  ?  —  Astrophel. 
(That  I  should  live  to  say  I  knew, 
And  have  not  in  possession  still !) 
Things  known  permit  me  to  renew  : 
Of  him  you  know  his  merit  such, 
I  cannot  say  —  you  hear  —  too  much. 

Within  these  woods  of  Arcady, 

He  chief  delight  and  pleasure  took ; 
And  on  the  mountain  Partheny, 
Upon  the  crystal  liquid  brook, 
The  Muses  met  him  every  day, 
That  taught  him  song  to  write  and  say. 

"When  he  descended  from  the  mount, 

His  personage  seemed  most  divine ; 
A  thousand  graces  one  might  count 
Upon  his  lovely  cheerful  eyne. 

To  hear  him  speak  and  sweetly  smile, 
You  were  in  Paradise  the  while. 

A  sweet  attractive  kind  of  grace, 

A  full  assurance  given  by  looks  ; 
Continual  comfort  in  a  face, 

The  lineaments  of  Gospel  books  : 


VERSES   ON   SIR  PHILIP    SIDNEY.  151 

I  trow  that  countenance  cannot  lie, 
Whose  thoughts  are  legible  in  th'  eye. 

Above  all  others,  this  is  he, 

Which  erst  approved  in  his  song 
That  love  and  honor  might  agree, 
And  that  pure  love  will  do  no  wrong. 
Sweet  saints,  it  is  no  sin  or  blame 
To  love  a  man  of  virtuous  name. 

Did  never  love  so  sweetly  breathe 

In  any  mortal  breast  before : 
Did  never  Muse  inspire  beneath 
A  poet's  brain  with  finer  store. 

He  wrote  of  love  with  high  conceit, 
And  beauty  rear'd  above  her  height. 


PRESCOTT'S  INFIRMITY  OF  SIGHT. 

BY   GEORGE   TICKNOR. 

WHEN  the  "  Ferdinand  and  Isabella  "  was  published, 
in  the  winter  of  1837-8,  its  author  was  nearly 
forty-two  years  old.  His  character,  some  of  whose  traits 
had  been  prominent  from  childhood,  while  others  had  been 
slowly  developed,  was  fully  formed.  His  habits  were  set- 
tled for  life.  He  had  a  perfectly  well-defined  individuality, 
as  everybody  knew  who  knew  anything  about  his  occupa- 
tions and  ways. 

Much  of  what  went  to  constitute  this  individuality  was 
the  result  of  his  infirmity  of  sight,  and  of  the  unceasing 
struggle  he  had  made  to  overcome  the  difficulties  it  entailed 
upon  him.  For,  as  we  shall  see  hereafter,  the  thought  of 
this  infirmity,  and  of  the  embarrassments  it  brought  with  it, 
was  ever  before  him.  It  colored,  and  in  many  respects  it 
controlled,  his  whole  life. 

The  violent  inflammation  that  resulted  from  the  fierce 
attack  of  rheumatism  in  the  early  months  of  1815  first  start- 
led him,  I  think,  with  the  apprehension  that  he  might  pos- 
sibly be  deprived  of  sight  altogether,  and  that  thus  his  future 
years  would  be  left  in  "  total  eclipse,  without  all  hope  of 
day."  But  from  this  dreary  apprehension,  his  recovery, 
slow,  and  partial  as  it  was,  and  the  buoyant  spirits  that  en- 
tered so  largely  into  his  constitution,  at  last  relieved  him. 
He  even,  from  tune  to  time,  as  the  disease  fluctuated  to  and 
fro,  had  hopes  of  an  entire  restoration  of  his  sight. 


PRESCOTT'S   INFIRMITY   OF   SIGHT.  153 

But  before  long,  he  began  to  judge  things  more  exactly 
as  they  were,  and  saw  plainly  that  anything  like  a  full  re- 
covery of  his  sight  was  improbable,  if  not  impossible.  He 
turned  his  thoughts,  therefore,  to  the  resources  that  would 
still  remain  to  him.  The  prospect  was  by  no  means  a  pleas- 
ant one,  but  he  looked  at  it  steadily  and  calmly.  All 
thought  of  the  profession  which  had  long  been  so  tempting 
to  him  he  gave  up.  He  saw  that  he  could  never  fulfil  its 
duties.  But  intellectual  occupation  he  could  not  give  up 
It  was  a  gratification  and  resource  which  his  nature  de- 
manded, and  would  not  be  refused.  The  difficulty  was  to 
find  out  how  it  could  be  obtained.  During  the  three  months 
of  his  confinement  in  total  darkness  at  St.  Michael's,  he  first 
began  to  discipline  his  thoughts  to  such  orderly  composition 
in  his  memory  as  he  might  have  written  down  on  paper,  if 
his  sight  had  permitted  it.  "  I  have  cheated,"  he  says,  in  a 
letter  to  his  family  written  at  the  end  of  that  discouraging 
period,  —  "I  have  cheated  many  a  moment  of  tedium  by 
compositions  which  were  soon  banished,  from  my  mind  for 
want  of  an  amanuensis." 

A.mong  these  compositions  was  a  Latin  ode  to  his  friend 
Gardiner,  which  was  prepared  wholly  without  books,  but 
which,  though  now  lost,  like  the  rest  of  his  Latin  verses,  he 
repeated  years  afterwards  to  his  Club,  who  did  not  fail  to 
thins  it  good.  It  is  evident,  however,  that,  for  a  consider- 
able time,  he  resorted  to  such  mental  occupations  and  exer- 
cises rather  as  an  amusement  than  as  anything  more  serious. 
Nor  did  he  at  first  go  far  with  them  even  as  a  light  and  tran- 
sient relief  from  idleness ;  for,  though  he  never  gave  them 
up  altogether,  and  though  they  at  last  became  a  very  impor- 
tant elfement  in  his  success  as  an  author,  he  soon  found  an 
agreealie  substitute  for  them,  at  least  so  far  as  his  imme- 
diate, e\ery-day  wants  were  concerned. 

The  sibstitute  to  which  I  refer,  but  which  itself  implied 
much  previous  reflection  and  thought  upon  what  he  should 
7* 


154  GEORGE   TICKNOR. 

commit  to  paper,  was  an  apparatus  to  enable  the  blind  to 
write.  He  heard  of  it  in  London  during  his  first  residence 
there  in  the  summer  of  1816.  A  lady,  at  whose  house  he 
visited  frequently,  and  who  became  interested  in  his  misfor- 
tune, "  told  him,"  as  he  says  in  a  letter  to  his  mother,  "  of  a 
newly  invented  machine  by  which  blind  people  are  enabled 
to  write.  I  have,"  he  adds,  "  before  been  indebted  to  Mrs. 
Delafield  for  an  ingenious  candle-screen.  If  this  machine 
can  be  procured,  you  will  be  sure  to  feel  the  effects  of  it." 

He  obtained  it  at  once ;  but  he  did  not  use  it  until  nearly 
a  month  afterwards,  when,  on  the  24th  of  August,  at  Paris, 
he  wrote  home  his  first  letter  with  it,  saying,  "  It  is  a  very 
happy  invention  for  me."  And  such  it  certainly  proved  to 
be,  for  he  never  ceased  to  use  it  from  that  day ;  nor  does  it 
now  seem  possible  that,  without  the  facilities  it  afforded  hm, 
he  ever  would  have  ventured  to  undertake  any  of  the  works 
which  have  made  his  name  what  it  is. 

The  machine  —  if  machine  it  can  properly  be  called  —  is 
an  apparatus  invented  by  one  of  the  well-known  Wedgewood 
family,  and  is  very  simple  both  in  its  structure  and  use.  It 
looks,  as  it  lies  folded  up  on  the  table,  like  a  clunsy 
portfolio,  bound  in-  morocco,  and  measures  about  ten  inches 
by  nine  when  unopened.  Sixteen  stout  parallel  brass  vires 
fastened  on  the  right-hand  side  into  a  frame  of  the  same  size 
with  the  cover,  much  like  the  frame  of  a  school-boy's  slate, 
and  crossing  it  from  side  to  side,  mark  the  number  of  lines 
that  can  be  written  on  a  page,  and  guide  the  hand  in  its 
blind  motions.  This  framework  of  wires  is  folded  dowa  upon 
a  sheet  of  paper  thoroughly  impregnated  with  a  black  sub- 
stance, especially  on  its '  under  surface,  beneath  wh  ch  lies 
the  sheet  of  common  paper  that  is  to  receive  the  vvriting. 
There  are  thus,  when  it  is  in  use,  three  layers  on  the 
right-hand  side  of  the  opened  apparatus ;  viz.  the  vires,  the 
blackened  sheet  of  paper,  and  the  white  sheet, — all  lying 
successively  in  contact  with  each  other,  the  two  that  are 


PRESCOTT'S  INFIRMITY  OF   SIGHT.  155 

underneath  being  held  firmly  in  their  places  by  the  frame- 
work of  wires  which  is  uppermost.  The  whole  apparatus 
is  called  a  noctograph. 

When  it  has  been  adjusted,  as  above  described,  the  person 
using  it  writes  with  an  ivory  style,  or  with  a  style  made  of 
some  harder  substance,  like  agate,  on  the  upper  surface  of 
the  blackened  paper,  which,  wherever  the  style  presses  on 
it,  transfers  the  coloring  matter  of  its  under  surface  to  the 
white  paper  beneath  it,  —  the  writing  thus  produced  looking 
much  like  that  done  with  a  common  black-lead  pencil. 

The  chief  difficulty  in  the  use  of  such  an  apparatus 
is  obvious.  The  person  employing  it  never  looks  upon 
his  work ;  never  sees  one  of  the  marks  he  is  making.  He 
trusts  wholly  to  the  wires  for  the  direction  of  his' hand.  He 
makes  his  letters  and  words  only  from  mechanical  habit. 
He  must,  therefore,  write  straight  forward,  without  any  op- 
portunity for  correction,  however  gross  may  be  the  mistakes 
he  has  made,  or  however  sure  he  may  be  that  he  has  made 
them  ;  for,  if  he  were  to  go  back  in  order  to  correct  an  error, 
he  would  only  make  his  page  still  more  confused,  and  prob- 
ably render  it  quite  illegible.  When,  therefore,  he  has 
made  a  mistake,  great  or  small,  all  he  can  do  is  to  go  for- 
ward, and  rewrite  further  on  the  word  or  phrase  he  first  in- 
tended to  write,  rarely  attempting  to  strike  out  what  was 
wrong,  or  to  insert,  in  its  proper  place,  anything  that  may 
have  been  omitted.  It  is  plain,  therefore,  that  the  person 
who  resorts  to  this  apparatus  as  a  substitute  for  sight  ought 
previously  to  prepare  and  settle  in  his  memory  what  he 
wishes  to  write,  so  as  to  make  as  few  mistakes  as  possible. 

With  the  best  care  his  manuscript  will  not  be  very  leg- 
ible. Without  it,  he  may  be  sure  it  can  hardly  be  deci- 
phered at  all. 

That  Mr.  Prescott,  under  his  disheartening  infirmities,  — 
I  refer  not  only  to  his  imperfect  sight,  but  to  the  rheumatism 
from  which  he  was  seldom  wholly  free,  —  should,  at  the  age 


156  GEORGE   TICKNOR. 

of  five-and-twenty  or  thirty,  with  no  help  but  this  simple  ap- 
paratus, have  aspired  to  the  character  of  a  historian  dealing 
with  events  that  happened  in  times  and  countries  far  distant 
from  his  own,  and  that  are  recorded  chiefly  in  foreign  lan- 
guages and  by  authors  whose  conflicting  testimony  was  often 
to  be  reconciled  by  laborious  comparison,  is  a  remarkable 
fact  in  literary  history.  It  is  a  problem  the  solution  of 
which  was,  I  believe,  never  before  undertaken ;  certainly 
never  before  accomplished.  Nor  do  I  conceive  that  he  him- 
self could  have  accomplished  it,  unless  to  his  uncommon  in- 
tellectual gifts  had  been  added  great  animal  spirits,  a  strong, 
persistent  will,  and  a  moral  courage  which  was  to  be  daunt- 
ed by  no  obstacle  that  he  might  deem  it  possible  to  remove 
by  almost  any  amount  of  effort.* 

That  he  was  not  insensible  to  the  difficulties  of  his  under- 
taking, we  have  partly  seen,  as  we  have  witnessed  how  his 
hopes  fluctuated  while  he  was  struggling  through  the  ar- 
rangements for  beginning  to  write  his  "  Ferdinand  and  Isa- 
bella," and,  in  fact,  during  the  whole  period  of  its  compo- 
sition. But  he  showed  the  same  character,  the  same  fer- 
tility of  resource,  every  day  of  his  life,  and  provided,  both 
by  forecast  and  self-sacrifice,  against  the  embarrassments  of 
his  condition  as  they  successively  presented  themselves. 

The  first  thing  to  be  done,  and  the  thing  always  to  be  re- 
peated day  by  day,  was  to  strengthen,  as  much  as  possible, 
what  remained  of  his  sight,  and  at  any  rate,  to  do  nothing 

*  The  case  of  Thierry  —  the  nearest  known  to  me  —  was  differ- 
ent. His  great  work,  "  Histoire  de  la  Conqucte  de  1'  Angleterre  par 
les  Normands,"  was  written  before  he  became  blind.  What  he  pub- 
lished afterward  was  dictated, — wonderful,  indeed,  all  of  it,  but 
especially  all  that  relates  to  what  he  did  for  the  commission  of  the 
government  concerning  the  Tiers  fitat,  to  be  found  in  that  grand 
collection  of  "Documents  in<?dits  sur  1'Histoire  de  France,"  begun 
under  the  auspices  and  influence  of  M.  Guizot,  when  he  was  minister 
of  Louis-Philippe. 


PRESCOTT'S   INFIRMITY    OF    SIGHT.  157 

that  should  tend  to  exhaust  its  impaired  powers.  In  1821, 
when  he  was  still  not  without  some  hope  of  its  recovery,  he 
made  this  memorandum.  "  I  will  make  it  my  principal  pur- 
pose to  restore  my  eye  to  ite  primitive  vigor,  and  will  do 
nothing  habitually  that  can  seriously  injure  it."  To  this  end 
he  regulated  his  life  with  an  exactness  that  I  have  never 
known  equalled.  Especially  in  whatever  related  to  the 
daily  distribution  of  his  time,  whether  in  regard  to  his  intel- 
lectual labors,  to  his  social  enjoyments,  or  to  the  care  of  his 
physical  powers,  including  his  diet,  he  was  severely  exact, — 
managing  himself,  indeed,  in  this  last  respect,  under  the 
general  directions  of  his  wise  medical  adviser,  Dr.  Jackson, 
but  carrying  out  these  directions  with  an  ingenuity  and 
fidelity  all  his  own. 

He  was  an  early  riser,  although  it  was  a  great  effort  for 
him  to  be  such.  From  boyhood  it  seemed  to  be  contrary 
to  his  nature  to  get  up  betimes  in  the  morning.  He  was, 
therefore,  always  awaked,  and  after  silently,  and  sometimes 
slowly  and  with  reluctance,  counting  twenty,  so  as  fairly  to 
arouse  himself,  he  resolutely  sprang  out  of  bed ;  or,  if  he 
failed,  he  paid  a  forfeit,  as  a  memento  of  his  weakness,  to 
the  servant  who  had  knocked  at  his  chamber-door.*  His 
failures,  however,  were  rare.  When  he  was  called,  he  was 
told  the  state  of  the  weather  and  of  the  thermometer.  This 
was  important,  as  he  was  compelled  by  his  rheumatism  — 
almost  always  present,  and,  when  not  so,  always  appre- 
hended —  to  regulate  his  dress  with  care ;  and,  finding  it 
difficult  to  do  so  in  any  other  way,  he  caused  each  of  its 
heavier  external  portions  to  be  marked  by  his  tailor  with 

*  When  he  was  a  bachelor,  the  servant,  after  waiting  a  certain 
number  of  minutes  at  the  door  without  receiving  an  answer,  went  in 
and  took  away  the  bed-clothes.  This  was,  at  that  period,  the  office 
of  faithful  Nathan  Webster,  who  was  remembered  kindly  in  Mr.  Pres- 
cott's  will,  and  who  was  for  nearly  thirty  years  in  the  family,  a  true 
and  valued  friend  of  all  its  members. 


158  GEORGE    TICKNOR. 

the  number  of  ounces  it  weighed,  and  then  put  them  on 
according  to  the  temperature,  sure  that  their  weight  would 
indicate  the  measure  of  warmth  and  protection  they  would 
afford.* 

As  soon  as  he  was  dressed,  he  took  his  early  exercise  in 
the  open  air.  This,  for  many  years,  was  done  on  horse- 
back, and,  as  he  loved  a  spirited  horse  and  was  often  think- 
ing more  of  his  intellectual  pursuits  than  of  anything  else 
while  he  was  riding,  he  sometimes  caught  a  fall.  But  he 
was  a  good  rider,  and  was  sorry  to  give  up  this  form  of 
exercise  and  resort  to  walking  or  driving,  as  he  did,  by 
order  of  his  physician,  in  the  last  dozen  years  of  his  life. 
No  weather,  except  a  severe  storm,  prevented  him  at  any 
period  from  thus,  as  he  called  it,  "  winding  himself  up." 
Even  in  the  coldest  of  our  very  cold  winter  mornings,  it 
was  his  habit,  so  long  as  he  could  ride,  to  see  the  sun  rise  on 
a  particular  spot  three  or  four  miles  from  town.  In  a  letter 
to  Mrs.  Ticknor,  who  was  then  in  Germany,  dated  March, 
1836,  —  at  the  end  of  a  winter  memorable  for  its  extreme  se- 
verity, —  he  says,  "  You  will  give  me  credit  for  some  spunk 
when  I  tell  you  that  I  have  not  been  frightened  by  the 
cold  a  single  morning  from  a  ride  on  horseback  to  Jamaica 
Plain  and  back  again  before  breakfast.  My  mark  has  been 
to  see  the  sun  rise  by  Mr.  Greene's  school,  if  you  remember 
where  that  is."  When  the^  rides  here  referred  to  were 
taken,  the  thermometer  was  often  below  zero  of  Fahrenheit. 

On  his  return  home,  after  adjusting  his  dress  anew,  with 
reference  to  the  temperature  within  doors,  he  sat  down, 
almost  always  in  a  very  gay  humor,  to  a  moderate  and  even 
spare  breakfast,  —  a  meal  he  much  liked,  because,  as  he  said, 

*  As  in  the  case  of  the  use  of  wine,  hereafter  to  be  noticed,  he 
made,  from  year  to  year,  the  most  minute  memoranda  about  the  use 
of  clothes,  finding  it  necessary  to  be  exact  on  account  of  the  rheuma- 
tism which,  besides  almost  constantly  infesting  his  limbs,  always  af- 
fected his  sight  when  it  became  severe. 


PRESCOTT'S    INFIRMITY   OF    SIGHT.  159 

he  could  then  have  his  family  with  him  in  a  quiet  way,  and 
so  begin  the  day  happily.  From  the  breakfast-table  he 
went  at  once  to  his  study.  There,  while  busied  with  what 
remained  of  his  toilet,  or  with  the  needful  arrangements  for 
his  regular  occupations,  Mrs.  Prescott  read  to  him,  generally 
from  the  morning  papers,  but  sometimes  from  the  current 
literature  of  the  day.  At  a  fixed  hour  —  seldom  later  than 
ten  —  his  reader,  or  secretary,  came.  In  this,  as  in  every- 
thing, he  required  punctuality  ;  but  he  noted  tardiness  only 
by  looking  significantly  at  his  watch ;  for  it  is  the  testimony 
of  all  his  surviving  secretaries,  that  he  never  spoke  a  severe 
word  to  either  of  them  in  the  many  years  of  their  familiar 
intercourse. 

When  they  had  met  in  the  study,  there  was  no  thought 
but  of  active  work  for  about  three  hours.*  His  infirmities, 
however,  were  always  present  to  warn  him  how  cautiously  it 
must  be  done,  and  he  was  extremely  ingenious  in  the  means 
he  devised  for  doing  it  without  increasing  them.  The 
shades  and  shutters  for  regulating  the  exact  amount  of  light 
which  should  be  admitted ;  his  own  position  relatively  to 
its  direct  rays,  and  to  those  that  were  reflected  from  sur- 
rounding objects ;  the  adaptation  of  his  dress  and  of  the 
temperature  of  the  room  to  his  rheumatic  affections ;  and 
the  different  contrivances  for  taking  notes  from  the  books 
that  were  read  to  him,  and  for  impressing  on  his  memory, 
with  the  least  possible  use  of  his  sight,  such  portions  of 

*  I  speak  here  of  the  time  during  which  he  was  busy  with  his 
Histories.  In  the  intervals  between  them,  as,  for  instance,  between 
the  "Ferdinand  and  Isabella"  and  the  "Mexico,"  between  the 
"  Mexico "  and  "  Peru,"  &c.,  his  habits  were  very  different.  At 
these  periods  he  indulged,  sometimes  for  many  months,  in  a  great 
deal  of  light,  miscellaneous  reading,  which  he  used  to  call  "  literary 
loafing."  This  he  thought  not  only  agreeable,  but  refreshing  and 
useful ;  though  sometimes  he  complained  bitterly  of  himself  for  car- 
rying his  indulgences  of  this  sort  too  far. 


160  GEORGE   TICKNOE. 

each  as  were  needful  for  his  immediate  purpose,  —  were  all 
of  them  the  result  of  painstaking  experiments,  skilfully  and 
patiently  made.  But  their  ingenuity  and  adaptation  were 
less  remarkable  than  the  conscientious  consistency  with 
which  they  were  employed  from  day  to  day  for  forty  years. 

In  relation  to  all  such  arrangements,  two  circumstances 
should  be  noted. 

The  first  is,  that  the  resources  of  his  eye  were  always 
very  small  and  uncertain,  except  for  a  few  years,  beginning 
in  1840,  when,  from  his  long-continued  prudence  or  from 
some  inscrutable  cause,  there  seemed  to  be  either  an  increase 
of  strength  in  the  organ,  or  else  such  a  diminution  of  its 
sensibility  as  enabled  him  to  use  it  more,  though  its  strength 
might  really  be  diminished. 

Thus,  for  instance,  he  was  able  to  use  his  eye  very  little 
in  the  preparation  of  the  "  Ferdinand  and  Isabella,"  not 
looking  into  a  book  sometimes  for  weeks  and  even  months 
together,  and  yet  occasionally  he  could  read  several  hours 
in  a  day  if  he  carefully  divided  the  whole  into  short  portions, 
so  as  to  avoid  fatigue.  While  engaged  in  the  composition 
of  the  "  Conquest  of  Mexico,"  on  the  contrary,  he  was  able 
to  read  with  considerable  regularity,  and  so  he  was  while 
working  on  the  "  Conquest  of  Peru,"  though,  on  the  whole, 
with  less.* 

*  How  uncertain  was  the  state  of  his  eye,  even  when  it  was 
strongest,  may  be  seen  from  memoranda  made  at  different  times, 
within  less  than  two  years  of  each  other.  The  first  is  in  January, 
1829,  when  he  was  full  of  grateful  feelings  for  an  unexpected  increase 
of  his  powers  of  sight.  "  By  the  blessing  of  Heaven,"  he  says,  "  I 
have  been  enabled  to  have  the  free  use  of  my  eye  in  the  daytime  dur- 
ing the  last  weeks,  without  the  exception  of  a  single  day,  although 
deprived,  for  nearly  a  fortnight,  of  my  accustomed  exercise.  I  hope 
I  have  not  abused  this  great  privilege."  But  this  condition  of  things 
did  not  last  long.  Great  fluctuations  followed.  In  August  and  Sep. 
tember  he  was  much  discouraged  by  severe  inflammations ;  and  in 
October,  1830,  when  he  had  been  slowly  writing  the  "Ferdinand 


PRESCOTT'S   INFIRMITY    OF   SIGHT.  161 

But  he  had,  during  nearly  all  this  time,  another  difficulty 
to  encounter.  There  had  come  on  prematurely  that  grad- 
ual alteration  of  the  eye  which  is  the  consequence  of  advanc- 
ing years,  and  for  which  the  common  remedy  is  spectacles. 
Even  when  he  was  using  what  remained  to  him  of  sight  on 
the  "  Conquest  of  Mexico  "  with  a  freedom  which  not  a  little 
animated  him  in  his  pursuits,  he  perceived  this  discouraging 
change.  In  July,  1841,  he  says:  "  My  eye,  for  some  days, 
feels  dim.  '  I  guess  and  fear,'  as  Burns  says."  And  in 
June,  1842,  when  our  families  were  spending  together  at 
Lebanon  Springs  a  few  days  which  he  has  recorded  as 
otherwise  very  happy,  he  spoke  to  me  more  than  once  in  a 
tone  of  absolute  grief,  that  he  should  never  again  enjoy  the 
magnificent  spectacle  of  the  starry  heavens.  To  this  sad 
deprivation  he,  in  fact,  alludes  himself  in  his  Memoranda  of 
that  period,  where,  in  relation  to  his  eyes,  he  says  :  "  I  find 
a  misty  veil  increasing  over  them,  quite  annoying  when 

reading.     The  other   evening  B said,  '  How  beautiful 

the  heavens  are  with  so  many  stars ! '  I  could  hardly  see 
two.  It  made  me  sad." 

Spectacles,  however,  although  they  brought  their  appro- 
priate relief,  brought  also  an  inevitable  inconvenience. 
They  fatigued  his  eye.  He  could  use  it,  therefore,  less 
and  less,  or  if  he  used  it  at  all,  beyond  a  nicely  adjusted 
amount,  the  excess  was  followed  by  a  sort  of  irritability, 
weakness,  and  pain  in  the  organ  which  he  had  not  felt  for 
many  years.  This  went  on  increasing  with  sad  regularity. 
But  he  knew  that  it  was  inevitable,  and  submitted  to  it  pa- 
tiently. In  the  latter  part  of  his  life  he  was  able  to  use  his 
eye  very  little  indeed  for  the  purpose  of  reading,  —  in  the 
last  year,  hardly  at  all.  Even  in  several  of  the  years  pre- 

and  Isabella  "  for  about  a  year,  his  sight  for  a  time  became  so  much 
impaired  that  he  was  brought  —  I  use  his  own  words — "seriously  to 
consider  what  steps  he  should  take  in  relation  to  that  work,  if  his 
sight  should  fail  him  altogether." 


162  GEORGE  TICKNOE. 

ceding,  he  used  it  only  thirty-five  minutes  in  each  day, 
divided  exactly  by  the  watch  into  portions  of  five  minutes 
each,  with  at  least  half  an  hour  between,  and  always  stop- 
ping the  moment  pain  was  felt,  even  if  it  were  felt  at  the  first 
instant  of  opening  the  book.  I  doubt  whether  a  more  per- 
sistent, conscientious  care  was  ever  taken  of  an  impaired 
physical  power.  Indeed,  I  do  not  see  how  it  could  have 
been  made  more  thorough.  But  all  care  was  unavailing, 
and  he  at  last  knew  that  it  was  so.  The  decay  could  not  be 
arrested.  He  spoke  of  it  rarely,  but  when  he  perceived 
that  in  the  evening  twilight  he  could  no  longer  walk  about 
the  streets  that  were  familiar  to  him  with  his  accustomed 
assurance,  he  felt  it  deeply.  Still  he  persevered,  and  was 
as  watchful  of  what  remained  of  his  sight  as  if  his  hopes  of 
its  restoration  had  continued  unchecked.  Indeed,  I  think 
he  always  trusted  that  he  was  saving  something  by  his  anx- 
ious care ;  he  always  believed  that  great  prudence  on  one 
day  would  enable  him  to  do  a  little  more  work  on  the  next 
than  he  should  be  able  to  do  without  so  much  caution. 

The  other  circumstance  that  should  be  noticed  in  relation 
to  the  arrangements  for  his  pursuits  is,  the  continually  in- 
creased amount  of  light  he  was  obliged  to  use,  and  which  he 
could  use  without  apparent  injury. 

In  Bedford  Street,  where  he  first  began  his  experiments, 
he  could,  from  the  extreme  sensitiveness  of  his  eye,  bear 
very  little  light.  But,  even  before  he  left  that  quiet  old 
mansion,  he  cut  out  a  new  window  in  his  working-room, 
arranging  it  so  that  the  light  should  fall  more  strongly  and 
more  exclusively  upon  the  book  he  might  be  using.  This 
did  very  well  for  a  time.  But  when  he  removed  to  Beacon 
Street,  the  room  he  built  expressly  for  his  own  use  contained 
six  contiguous  windows ;  two  of  which,  though  large,  were 
glazed  each  with  a  single  sheet  of  the  finest  plate-glass, 
nicely  protected  by  several  curtains  of  delicate  fabric  and  of 
a  light-blue*  color,  one  or  more  of  which  could  be  drawn  up 


PRESCOTT'S   INFIRMITY   OF    SIGHT.  163 

over  each  window  to  temper  the  light  while  the  whole  light 
that  was  admitted  through  any  one  opening  could  be  ex- 
cluded by  solid  wooden  shutters.  At  first,  though  much 
light  was  commonly  used,  these  appliances  for  diminishing 
it  were  all  more  or  less  required.  But,  gradually,  one  after 
another  of  them  was  given  up,  and,  at  last,  I  observed  that 
none  was  found  important.  He  needed  and  used  all  the 
light  he  could  get. 

The  change  was  a  sad  one,  and  he  did  not  like  to  allude 
to  it.  But  during  the  last  year  of  his  life,  after  the  first 
slight  access  of  paralysis,  which  much  disturbed  the  organ 
for  a  time,  and  rendered  its  action  very  irregular,  he  spoke 
plainly  to  me.  He  said  he  must  soon  cease  to  use  his  eye 
for  any  purpose  of  study,  but  fondly  trusted  that  he  should 
always  be  able  to  recognize  the  features  of  his  friends,  and 
should  never  become  a  burden  to  those  he  loved  by  needing 
to  be  led  about.  His  hopes  were,  indeed,  fulfilled,  but  not 
without  the  sorrow  of  all.  The  day  before  his  sudden 
death  he  walked  the  streets  as  freely  as  he  had  done  for 
years. 

Still,  whatever  may  have  been  the  condition  of  his  eye  at 
any  period,  —  from  the  fierce  attack  of  1815  to  the  very  end 
of  his  life,  —  it  was  always  a  paramount  subject  of  anxiety 
with  him.  He  never  ceased  to  think  of  it,  and  to  regulate 
the  hours,  and  almost  the  minutes,  of  his  daily  life  by  it. 
Even  in  its  best  estate  he  felt  that  it  must  be  spared  ;  in  its 
worst,  he  was  anxious  to  save  something  by  care  and  absti- 
nence. He  said,  "he  reckoned  time  by  eyesight,  as  dis- 
tances on  railroads  are  reckoned  by  hours." 

One  thing  in  this  connection  may  be  noted  as  remarkable. 
He  knew  that,  if  he  would  give  up  literary  labor  altogether, 
his  eye  would  be  better  at  once,  and  would  last  longer. 
His  physicians  all  told  him  so,  and  their  opinion  was  ren- 
dered certain  by  his  own  experience  ;  for  whenever  he  ceased 
to  work  for  some  time,  as  during  a  visit  to  New  York  in 


164  GEORGE   TICKNOR. 

1842  and  a  visit  to  Europe  in  1850, —  in  short,  whenever 
he  took  a  journey  or  indulged  himself  in  holidays  of  such  a 
sort  as  prevented  him  from  looking  into  books  at  all  or 
thinking  much  about  them,  —  his  general  health  immediately 
became  more  vigorous  than  might  have  been  expected  from 
a  relief  so  transient,  and  his  sight  was  always  improved; 
sometimes  materially  improved.  But  he  would  not  pay  the 
price.  He  perferred  to  submit,  if  it  should  be  inevitable,  to 
the  penalty  of  ultimate  blindness,  rather  than  give  up  his 
literary  pursuits. 

He  never  liked  to  work  more  than  three  hours  consecu- 
tively. At  one  o'clock,  therefore,  he  took  a  walk  of  about 
two  miles,  and  attended  to  any  little  business  abroad  that 
was  incumbent  on  him,  coming  home  generally  refreshed 
and  exhilarated,  and  ready  to  lounge  a  little  and  gossip. 
Dinner  followed,  for  the  greater  part  of  his  life  about  three 
o'clock,  although,  during  a  few  years,  he  dined  in  winter  at 
five  or  six,  which  he  preferred,  and  which  he  gave  up  only 
because  his  health  demanded  the  change.  In  the  summer 
he  always  dined  early,  so  as  to  have  the  late  afternoon  for 
driving  and  exercise  during  our  hot  season. 

He  enjoyed  the  pleasures  of  the  table,  and  even  its  luxu- 
ries, more  than  most  men.  But  he  restricted  himself  care- 
fully in  the  use  of  them,  adjusting  everything  with  reference 
to  its  effect  on  the  power  of  using  his  eye  immediately  after- 
wards, and  especially  on  his  power  of  using  it  the  next  day. 
Occasional  indulgence  when  dining  out  or  with  friends  at 
home  he  found  useful,  or  at  least  not  injurious,  and  was  en- 
couraged in  it  by  his  medical  counsel.  But  he  dined  abroad, 
as  he  did  everything  of  the  sort,  at  regulated  intervals,  and 
not  only  determined  beforehand  in  what  he  should  deviate 
from  his  settled  habits,  but  often  made  a  record  of  the  result 
for  his  future  government. 

The  most  embarrassing  question,  however,  as  to  diet,  re- 
garded the  use  of  wine,  which,  if  at  first  it  sometimes  seemed 


PRESCOTT'S   INFIRMITY    OF    SIGHT.  165 

to  be  followed  by  bad  consequences,  was  yet,  on  the  whole, 
found  useful,  and  was  prescribed  to  him.  To  make  every- 
thing certain,  and  settle  the  precise  point  to  which  he  should 
go,  he  instituted  a  series  of  experiments,  and  between  March, 
1818,  and  November,  1820,  —  a  period  of  two  years  and 
nine  months,  —  he  recorded  the  exact  quantity  of  wine  that 
he  took  every  day,  except  the  few  days  when  he  entirely 
abstained.  It  was  Sherry  or  Madeira.  In  the  great  ma- 
jority of  cases  —  four  fifths,  I  should  think  —  it  ringed  from 
one  to  two  glasses,  but  went  up  sometimes  to  four  or  five, 
and  even  to  six.  He  settled  at  last,  upon  two  or  two  and 
a  half  as  the  quantity  best  suited  to  his  case,  and  persevered 
in  this  as  his  daily  habit,  until  the  last  year  of  his  life,  dur- 
ing which  a  peculiar  regimen  was  imposed  upon  him  from 
the  peculiar  circumstances  of  his  health.  In  all  this  I  wish 
to  be  understood  that  he  was  rigorous  with  himself,  —  much 
more  so  than  persons  thought  who  saw  him  only  when  he 
was  dining  with  friends,  and  when,  but  equally  upon  system 
and  principle,  he  was  much  more  free. 

He  generally  smoked  a  single  weak  cigar  after  dinner, 
and  listened  at  the  same  time  to  light  reading  from  Mrs. 
Prescott.  A  walk  of  two  miles  —  more  or  less  —  followed ; 
but  always  enough,  after  the  habit  of  riding  was  given  up,  to 
make  the  full  amount  of  six  miles'  walking  for  the  day's 
exercise,  and  then,  between  five  and  eight,  he  took  a  cup  of 
tea,  and  had  his  reader  with  him  for  work  two  hours  more. 

The  labors  of  the  day  were  now  definitively  ended.  He 
came  down  from  his  study  to  his  library,  and  either  sat 
there  or  walked  about  while  Mrs.  Prescott  read  to  him 
from  some  amusing  book,  generally  a  novel,  and,  above  all 
other  novels,  those  of  Scott  and  Miss  Edgeworth.  In  all 
this  he  took  great  solace.  He  enjoyed  the  room  as  well  as 
the  reading,  and,  as  he  moved  about,  would  often  stop  be- 
fore the  books,  —  especially  his  favorite  books,  —  and  be 
sure  that  they  were  all  in  their  proper  places,  drawn  up  ex- 


166  GEORGE    TICKNOK. 

actly  to  the  front  of  their  respective  shelves,  like  soldiers 
on  a  dress-parade,  —  sometimes  speaking  of  them,  and 
almost  to  them,  as  if  they  were  personal  friends. 

At  half  past  ten,  having  first  taken  nearly  another  glass 
of  wine,  he  went  to  bed,  fell  asleep  quickly,  and  slept  soundly 
and  well.  Suppers  he  early  gave  up,  although  they  were  a 
form  of  social  intercourse  much  liked  in  his  father's  house, 
and  common  thirty  or  forty  years  ago  in  the  circle  to  which 
he  belonged.  Besides  all  other  reasons  against  them,  he 
found  that  the  lights  commonly  on  the  table  shot  their  hori- 
zontal rays  so  as  to  injure  his  suffering  organ.  Larger  even- 
ing parties,  which  were  not  so  liable  to  this  objection,  he 
liked  rather  for  their  social  influences  than  for  the  pleasure 
they  gave  him ;  but  he  was  seen  in  them  to  the  last,  though 
rarely  and  only  for  a  short  time  in  each.  Earlier  in  life, 
when  he  enjoyed  them  more  and  stayed  later,  he  would, 
in  the  coldest  winter  nights,  after  going  home,  run  up  and 
down  on  a  plank  walk,  so  arranged  in  the  garden  of  the 
Bedford-Street  house  that  he  could  do  it  with  his  eyes  shut, 
for  twenty  minutes  or  more,  in  order  that  his  system  might 
be  refreshed,  and  his  sight  invigorated,  for  the  next  morn- 
ing's work.*  Later,  unhappily,  this  was  not  needful.  His 
eye  had  lost  the  sensibility  that  gave  its  value  to  such  a 
habit. 

In  his  exercise,  at  all  its  assigned  hours,  he  was  faithful 
and  exact.  If  a  violent  storm  prevented  him  from  going 
out,  or  if  the  bright  snow  on  sunny  days  in  winter  rendered 
it  dangerous  for  him  to  expose  his  eye  to  its  brilliant  reflec- 

*  Some  persons  may  think  this  to  have  been  a  fancy  of  my 
friend,  or  an  over-nice  estimate  of  the  value  of  the  open  air.  But 
others  have  found  the  same  benefit  who  needed  it  less.  Sir  Charles 
Bell  says,  in  his  journal,  that  he  used  to  sit  in  the  open  air  a  great 
deal,  and  read  or  draw,  because  on  the  following  day  he  found  himself 
so  much  better  able  to  work.  Some  of  the  best  passages  in  his  great 
treatises  were,  he  says,  written  under  these  circumstances. 


PRESCOTT'S   INFIRMITY    OF   SIGHT.  167 

tion,  he  would  dress  himself  as  for  the  street  and  walk  vig- 
orously about  the  colder  parts  of  the  house,  or  he  would 
saw  and  chop  fire-wood,  under  cover,  being,  in  the  latter 
case,  read  to  all  the  while. 

The  result  he  sought,  and  generally  obtained,  by  these 
efforts  was  not,  however,  always  to  be  had  without  suffering. 
The  first  mile  or  two  of  his  walk  often  cost  him  pain  — 
sometimes  sharp  pain  —  in  consequence  of  the  rheumatism, 
which  seldom  deserted  his  limbs ;  but  he  never  on  this 
account  gave  it  up ;  for  regular  exercise  in  the  open  air 
was,  as  he  well  knew,  indispensable  to  the  preservation  of 
whatever  remained  of  his  decaying  sight.  He  persevered, 
therefore,  through  the  last  two  suffering  years  of  his  life, 
when  it  was  peculiarly  irksome  and  difficult  for  him  to 
move  ;  and  even  in  the  days  immediately  preceding  his  first 
attack  of  paralysis,  when  he  was  very  feeble,  he  was  out 
at  his  usual  hours.  His  will,  in  truth,  was  always  stronger 
than  the  bodily  ills  that  beset  him,  and  prevailed  over  them 
to  the  last.* 

*  On  one  occasion,  when  he  was  employed  upon  a  work  that 
interested  him  because  it  related  to  a  friend,  he  was  attacked  with 
pains  that  made  a  sitting  posture  impossible.  But  he  would  not 
yield.  He  took  his  noctograph  to  a  sofa,  and  knelt  before  it  so  as  to 
be  able  to  continue  his  work.  This  resource,  however,  failed,  and 
then  he  laid  himself  down  flat  upon  the  floor.  This  extrarordinary 
operation  went  on  during  portions  of  nine  successive  days. 


BEATRICE. 

BY   DANTE. 

THIS  most  gentle  lady  reached  such  favor  among  the 
people,  that  when  she  passed  along  the  way  persons 
ran  to  see  her,  which  gave  me  wonderful  delight.  And 
when  she  was  near  any  one,  such  modesty  took  possession 
of  his  heart,  that  he  did  not  dare  to  raise  his  eyes  or  to  re- 
turn her  salutation ;  and  to  this,  should  any  one  doubt  it, 
many,  as  having  experienced  it,  could  bear  witness  for  me. 
She,  crowned  and  clothed  with  humility,  took  her  way,  dis- 
playing no  pride  in  that  which  she  saw  and  heard.  Many, 
when  she  had  passed,  said,  "  This  is  not  a  woman  ;  rather  is 
she  one  of  the  most  beautiful  angels  of  heaven."  Others 
said,  "  She  is  a  miracle.  Blessed  be  the  Lord  who  can  per- 
form such  a  marvel ! "  I  say  that  she  showed  herself  so 
gentle  and  so  full  of  all  beauties,  that  those  who  looked  on 
her  felt  within  themselves  a  pure  and  sweet  delight  such  as 
they  could  not  tell  in  words ;  nor  was  there  any  who  could 
look  at  her  and  not  feel  need  at  first  to  sigh.  These  and 
more  wonderful  things  proceeded  from  her,  marvellously  and 
with  power.  Wherefore  I,  thinking  on  all  this,  proposed 
to  say  some  words,  in  which  I  would  exhibit  her  mar- 
vellous and  excellent  influences,  to  the  end  that  not  only 
those  who  might  actually  behold  her,  but  also  others,  might 
know  of  her  whatever  words  could  tell.  Then  I  wrote  this 
sonnet : — 


BEATRICE.  169 

So  gentle  and  so  modest  doth  appear 
My  lady  when  she  giveth  her  salute, 
That  every  tongue  becometh  trembling  mute, 
Nor  do  the  eyes  to  look  upon  her  dare. 

And  though  she  hears  her  praises,  she  doth  go 
Benignly  clothed  with  humility, 
And  like  a  thing  come  down  she  seems  to  be 
From  heaven  to  earth,  a  miracle  to  show. 

So  pleaseth  she  whoever  cometh  nigh, 

She  gives  the  heart  a  sweetness  through  the  eyes, 
Which  none  can  understand  who  doth  not  prove. 

And  from  her  lip  there  seems  indeed  to  move 
A  spirit  sweet  and  in  Love's  very  guise, 
Which  goeth  saying  to  the  soul,  "Ah,  sigh !" 


A   LOVE    STORY.* 

BY  ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 
CHAPTER    I. 

BASH  MARRIAGES.  AIT  EARLY  WIDOWHOOD.  AFFLICTION  REN- 
DERED A  BLESSING  TO  THE  SUFFERERS  J  AND  TWO  ORPHANS 
LEFT,  THOUGH  NOT  DESTITUTE,  YET  FRIENDLESS. 

Love  built  a  stately  house ;  where  Fortune  came, 
And  spinning  fancies,  she  was  heard  to  say 

That  her  fine  cobwebs  did  support  the  frame; 

Whereas  they  were  supported  by  the  same. 
But  Wisdom  quickly  swept  them  all  away. 

HERBERT. 

MRS.  DOVE  was  the  only  child  of  a  clergyman  who 
held  a  small  vicarage  in  the  West  Riding.  Leonard 
Bacon,  her  father,  had  been  left  an  orphan  in  early  youth. 
He  had  some  wealthy  relations  by  whose  contributions  he 
was  placed  at  an  endowed  grammar-school  in  the  country, 
and  having  through  their  influence  gained  a  scholarship,  to 
which  his  own  deserts  might  have  entitled  him,  they  con- 
tinued to  assist  him  —  sparingly  enough  indeed  —  at  the 
University,  till  he  succeeded  to  a  fellowship.  Leonard  was 
made  of  Nature's  finest  clay,  and  Nature  had  tempered  it 
with  the  choicest  dews  of  heaven. 

He  had  a  female  cousin  about  three  years  younger  than 
himself,  and  in  like  manner  an  orphan,  equally  destitute,  but 

*  Southey  always  intended  to  complete  this  story,  but  he  did  not  live 
to  fulfil  his  purpose.  It  is  here  brought  together  for  the  first  time  in 
America,  from  the  pages  of  that  admirable  work  which  has  now  taken 
its  place  as  an  English  classic,  —  "  The  Doctor." 


A  LOVE  STORY.  171 

far  more  forlorn.  Man  hath  a  fleece  about  him  which  en- 
ables him  to  bear  the  bufferings  of  the  storm ;  — but  woman 
•when  young,  and  lovely,  and  poor,  is  as  a  shorn  lamb  for 
which  the  wind  has  not  been  tempered. 

Leonard's  father  and  Margaret's  had  been  bosom  friends. 
They  were  subalterns  in  the  same  regiment,  and,  being  for  a 
long  time  stationed  at  Salisbury,  had  become  intimate  at  the 
house  of  Mr.  Trewbody,  a  gentleman  of  one  of  the  oldest 
families  in  "Wiltshire.  Mr.  Trewbody  had  three  daughters. 
Melicent,  the  eldest,  was  a  celebrated  beauty,  and  the  knowl- 
edge of  this  had  not  tended  to  improve  a  detestable  temper. 
The  two  youngest,  Deborah  and  Margaret,  were  lively,  good- 
natured,  thoughtless,  and  attractive.  They  danced  with  the 
two  lieutenants,  played  to  them  on  the  spinnet,  sung  with 
them  and  laughed  with  them,  —  till  this  mirthful  intercourse 
became  serious,  and,  knowing  that  it  would  be  impossible  to 
obtain  their  father's  consent,  they  married  the  men  of  their 
hearts  without  it.  Palmer  and  Bacon  were  both  without 
fortune,  and  without  any  other  means  of  subsistence  than 
their  commissions.  For  four  years  they  were  as  happy  as 
love  could  make  them ;  at  the  end  of  that  time  Palmer  was 
seized  with  an  infectious  fever.  Deborah  was  then  far  ad- 
vanced in  pregnancy,  and  no  solicitations  could  induce  Bacon 
to  keep  from  his  friend's  bedside.  The  disease  proved  fatal ; 
it  communicated  to  Bacon  and  his  wife ;  the  former  only 
survived  his  friend  ten  days,  and  he  and  Deborah  were  then 
laid  in  the  same  grave.  They  left  an  only  boy  of  three 
years  old,  and  in  less  than  a  month  the  widow  Palmer  was 
delivered  of  a  daughter. 

In  the  first  impulse  of  anger  at  the  flight  of  his  daughters, 
and  the  degradation  of  his  family,  (for  Bacon  was  the  son 
of  a  tradesman,  and  Palmer  was  nobody  knew  who,)  Mr. 
Trewbody  had  made  his  will,  and  left  the  whole  sum,  which 
he  had  designed  for  his  three  daughters,  to  the  eldest 
"Whether  the  situation  of  Margaret  and  the  two  orphans 


172  ROBERT   SOUTHEY. 

might  have  touched  him,  is  perhaps  doubtful,  —  for  the  fam- 
ily were  either  light-hearted  or  hard-hearted,  and  his  heart 
was  of  the  hard  sort ;  but  he  died  suddenly  a  few  months 
before  his  sons-in-law.  The  only  son,  Trewman  Trewbody, 
Esq.,  a  "Wiltshire  fox-hunter,  like  his  father,  succeeded  to 
the  estate ;  and  as  he  and  his  eldest  sister  hated  each  other 
cordially,  Miss  Melicent  left  the  manor-house,  and  estab- 
lished herself  in  the  Close  at  Salisbury,  where  she  lived  in 
that  style  which  a  portion  of  £  6,000  enabled  her  in  those 
days  to  support. 

The  circumstance  which  might  appear  so  greatly  to  have 
aggravated  Mrs.  Palmer's  distress,  if  such  distress  be  capable 
of  aggravation,  prevented  her  perhaps  from  eventually  sink- 
ing under  it.  If  the  birth  of  her  child  was  no  alleviation 

O 

of  her  sorrow,  it  brought  with  it  new  feelings,  new  duties, 
new  cause  for  exertion,  and  new  strength  for  it.  She  wrote 
to  Melicent  and  to  her  brother,  simply  stating  her  own 
destitute  situation,  and  that  of  the  orphan  Leonard ;  she  be- 
lieved that  their  pride  would  not  suffer  them  either  to  let 
her  starve  or  go  to  the  parish  for  support,  and  in  this  she 
was  not  disappointed.  An  answer  was  returned  by  Miss 
Trewbody,  informing  her  that  she  had  nobody  to  thank  but 
herself  for  her  misfortunes ;  but  that,  notwithstanding  the 
disgrace  which  she  had  brought  upon  the  family,  she  might 
expect  an  annual  allowance  of  ten  pounds  from  the  writer, 
and  a  like  sum  from  her  brother  ;  upon  this  she  must  retire 
into  some  obscure  part  of  the  country,  and  pray  God  to  for- 
give her  for  the  offence  she  had  committed,  in  marrying 
beneath  her  birth,  and  against  her  father's  consent. 

Mrs.  Palmer  had  also  written  to  the  friends  of  Lieutenant 
Bacon,  —  her  own  husband  had  none  who  could  assist  her. 
She  expressed  her  willingness  and  her  anxiety  to  have  the 
care  of  her  sister's  orphan,  but  represented  her  forlorn  state. 
They  behaved  more  liberally  than  her  own  kin  had  done, 
and  promised  five  pounds  a  year  as  long  as  the  boy  should 


A  LOVE  STORY.  173 

require  it.  With  this  and  her  pension  she  took  a  cottage  in 
a  retired  village.  Grief  had  acted  upon  her  heart  like  the 
rod  of  Moses  upon  the  rock  in  the  desert ;  it  had  opened 
it,  and  the  well-spring  of  piety  had  gushed  forth.  Affliction 
made  her  religious,  and  religion  brought  with  it  consolation, 
and  comfort,  and  joy.  Leonard  became  as  dear  to  her  as 
Margaret.  The  sense  of  duty  educed  a  pleasure  from  every 
privation  to  which  she  subjected  herself  for  the  sake  of 
economy ;  and,  in  endeavoring  to  fulfil  her  duties  in  that 
state  of  life  to  which  it  had  pleased  God  to  call  her,  she 
was  happier  than  she  had  ever  been  in  her  father's  house, 
and  not  less  so  than  in  her  marriage  state.  Her  happiness 
indeed  was  different  in  kind,  but  it  was  higher  in  degree. 
For  the  sake  of  these  dear  children  she  was  contented  to 
live,  and  even  prayed  for  life ;  while,  if  it  had  respected 
herself  only,  death  had  become  to  her  rather  an  object  of 
desire  than  of  dread.  In  this  manner  she  lived  seven  years 
after  the  loss  of  her  husband,  and  was  then  carried  off  by  an 
acute  disease,  to  the  irreparable  loss  of  the  orphans,  who 
were  thus  orphaned  indeed. 

CHAPTER   II. 

A  LADY  DESCRIBED  WHOSE  SINGLE  LIFE  WAS  NO  BLESSEDNESS 
EITHER  TO  HERSELF  OR  OTHERS.  A  VERACIOUS  EPITAPH  AND 
AN  APPROPRIATE  MONUMENT. 

Beauty !  my  Lord,  —  'tis  the  worst  part  of  woman ! 
A  weak,  poor  thing,  assaulted  every  hour 
By  creeping  minutes  of  defacing  time; 
A  superficies  which  each  breath  of  care 
Blasts  off;  and  every  humorous  stream  of  grief, 
Which  flows  from  forth  these  fountains  of  our  eyes, 
Washeth  away,  as  rain  doth  winter's  snow. 

GOFF. 

Miss  TREWBODY  behaved  with  perfect  propriety  upon 
the  news  of  her  sister's  death.     She  closed  her  front  win- 


174  ROBERT   SOUTHEY. 

dows  for  two  days ;  received  no  visitors  for  a  week ;  was 
much  indisposed,  but  resigned  to  the  will  of  Providence,  in 
reply  to  messages  of  condolence ;  put  her  servants  in  mourn- 
ing, and  sent  for  Margaret,  that  she  might  do  her  duty  to 
her  sister's  child  by  breeding  her  up  under  her  own  eye. 
Poor  Margaret  was  transferred  from  the  stone  floor  of  her 

O 

mother's  cottage  to  the  Turkey  carpet  of  her  aunt's  parlor. 
She  was  too  young  to  comprehend  at  once  the  whole  evil  of 
the  exchange ;  but  she  learned  to  feel  and  understand  it 
during  years  of  bitter  dependence,  unalleviated  by  any  hope, 
except  that  of  one  day  seeing  Leonard,  the  only  creature  on 
earth  whom  she  remembered  with  affection. 

Seven  years  elapsed,  and  during  all  those  years  Leonard 
was  left  to  pass  his  holidays,  summer  and  winter,  at  the 
grammar-school  where  he  had  been  placed  at  Mrs.  Palmer's 
death :  for  although  the  master  regularly  transmitted  with 
his  half-yearly  bill  the  most  favorable  accounts  of  his  dis- 
position and  general  conduct,  as  well  as  of  his  progress  in 
learning,  no  wish  to  see  the  boy  had  ever  arisen  in  the 
hearts  of  his  nearest  relations ;  and  no  feeling  of  kindness, 
or  sense  of  decent  humanity,  had  ever  induced  either  the 
fox-hunter  Trewman,  or  Melicent  his  sister,  to  invite  him 
for  Midsummer  or  Christmas.  At  length  in  the  seventh 
year  a  letter  announced  that  his  school-education  had  been 

completed,  and  that  he  was  elected  to  a  scholarship  at 

College,  Oxford,  which  scholarship  would  entitle  him  to  a 
fellowship  in  due  course  of  time :  in  the  intervening  years 
some  little  assistance  from  his  liberal  benefactors  would  be 
required ;  and  the  liberality  of  those  kind  friends  would  be 
well  bestowed  upon  a  youth  who  bade  so  fair  to  do  honor 
to  himself,  and  to  reflect  no  disgrace  upon  his  honorable  con- 
nections. The  head  of  the  family  promised  his  part,  with 
an  ungracious  expression  of  satisfaction  at  thinking  that, 
"  thank  God,  there  would  soon  be  an  end  of  these  demands 
upon  him."  Miss  Trewbody  signified  her  assent  in  the 


A   LOVE   STORY.  175 

same  amiable  and  religious  spirit.  However  much  her 
sister  had  disgraced  her  family,  she  replied,  "  Please  God, 
it  should  never  be  said  that  she  refused  to  do  her  duty." 

The  whole  sum  which  these  wealthy  relations  contributed 
was  not  very  heavy,  —  an  annual  ten  pounds  each ;  but 
they  contrived  to  make  their  nephew  feel  the  weight  of 
every  separate  portion.  The  Squire's  half  came  always 
with  a  brief  note,  desiring  that  the  receipt  of  the  enclosed 
sum  might  be  acknowledged  without  delay,  —  not  a  word  of 
kindness  or  courtesy  accompanied  it :  and  Miss  Trewbody 
never  failed  to  administer  with  her  remittance  a  few  edify- 
ing remarks  upon  the  folly  of  his  mother  in  marrying 
beneath  herself ;  and  the  improper  conduct  of  his  father  in 
connecting  himself  with  a  woman  of  family,  against  the 
consent  of  her  relations  ;  the  consequence  of  which  was, 
that  he  had  left  a  child  dependent  upon  those  relations  for 
support.  Leonard  received  these  pleasant  preparations  of 
charity  only  at  distant  intervals,  when  he  regularly  expected 
them,  with  his  half-yearly  allowance.  But  Margaret  mean- 
time was  dieted  upon  the  food  of  bitterness,  without  one 
circumstance  to  relieve  the  misery  of  her  situation. 

At  the  time  of  which  I  am  now  speaking,  Miss  Trewbody 
was  a  maiden  lady  of  forty-seven,  in  the  highest  state  of 
preservation.  The  whole  business  of  her  life  had  been  to 
take  care  of  a  fine  person,  and  in  this  she  had  succeeded 
admirably.  Her  library  consisted  of  two  books  :  "  Nelson's 
Festivals  and  Fasts  "  was  one,  the  other  was  "  The  Queen's 
Cabinet  Unlocked";  and  there  was  not  a  cosmetic  in  the 
latter  which  she  had  not  faithfully  prepared.  Thus  by 
means,  as  she  believed,  of  distilled  waters  of  various  kinds, 
May-dew  and  buttermilk,  her  skin  retained  its  beautiful 
texture  still,  and  much  of  its  smoothness ;  and  she  knew  at 
times  how  to  give  it  the  appearance  of  that  brilliancy  which 
it  had  lost.  But  that  was  a  profound  secret.  Miss  Trew- 
body, remembering  the  example  of  Jezebel,  always  felt 


176  ROBERT   SOUTHEY. 

conscious  that  she  was  committing  a  sin  when  she  took  the 
rouge-box  in  her  hand,  and  generally  ejaculated  in  a  low 
voice,  the  Lord  forgive  me !  when  she  laid  it  down :  but, 
looking  hi  the  glass  at  the  same  time,  she  indulged  a  hope 
that  the  nature  of  the  temptation  might  be  considered  as 
an  excuse  for  the  transgression.  Her  other  great  business 
was  to  observe  with  the  utmost  precision  all  the  punctilios 
of  her  situation  in  life ;  and  the  time  which  was  not  devoted 
to  one  or  other  of  these  worthy  occupations,  was  employed 
in  scolding  her  servants,  and  tormenting  her  niece.  This 
employment,  for  it  was  so  habitual  that  it  deserved  that 
name,  agreed  excellently  with  her  constitution.  She  was 
troubled  with  no  acrid  humors,  no  fits  of  bile,  no  diseases 
of  the  spleen,  no  vapors  or  hysterics.  The  morbid  matter 
was  all  collected  in  her  temper,  and  found  a  regular  vent  at 
her  tongue.  This  kept  the  lungs  in  vigorous  health  ;  nay, 
it  even  seemed  to  supply  the  place  of  wholesome  exercise, 
and  to  stimulate  the  system  like  a  perpetual  blister,  with 
this  peculiar  advantage,  that  instead  of  an  inconvenience  it 
was  a  pleasure  to  herself,  and  all  the  annoyance  was  to  her 
dependants. 

Miss  Trewbody  lies  buried  in  the  Cathedral  at  Salisbury, 
where  a  monument  was  erected  to  her  memory  worthy  of 
remembrance  itself  for  its  appropriate  inscription  and  ac- 
companiments. The  epitaph  recorded  her  as  a  woman 
eminently  pious,  virtuous,  and  charitable,  who  lived  univer- 
sally respected,  and  died  sincerely  lamented,  by  all  who  had 
the  happiness  of  knowing  her.  This  inscription  was  upon 
a  marble  shield  supported  by  two  Cupids,  who  bent  their 
heads  over  the  edge,  with  marble  tears  larger  than  gray 
pease,  and  something  of  the  same  color,  upon  their  cheeks. 
These  were  the  only  tears  which  her  death  occasioned,  and 
the  only  Cupids  with  whom  she  had  ever  any  concern. 


A  LOVE   STORY.  177 


CHAPTER   III. 

A  SCENE  WHICH  WILL  PUT  SOME  OF  THOSE  READERS  WHO  HAVE 
BEEN  MOST  IMPATIENT  WITH  THE  AUTHOR,  IN  THE  BEST  HUMOR 
WITH  HIM. 

There  is  no  argument  of  more  antiquity  and  elegancy  than  is  the  mat- 
ter of  Love  ;  for  it  seems  to  be  as  old  as  the  world,  and  to  bear  date  from 
the  first  time  that  man  and  woman  was :  therefore  in  this,  as  in  the  finest 
metal,  the  freshest  wits  have  in  all  ages  shown  their  best  workmanship. 

ROBERT  WILMOT. 

WHEN  Leonard  had  resided  three  years  at  Oxford,  one 
of  his  college-friends  invited  him  to  pass  the  long  vacation 
at  his  father's  house,  which  happened  to  be  within  an  easy 
ride  of  Salisbury.  One  morning,  therefore,  he  rode  to  that 
city,  rung  at  Miss  Trewbody's  door,  and  having  sent  in  his 
name,  was  admitted  into  the  parlor,  where  there  was  no  one 
to  receive  him,  while  Miss  Trewbody  adjusted  her  head- 
dress at  the  toilette,  before  she  made  her  appearance.  Her 
feelings  while  she  was  thus  employed  were  not  of  the 
pleasantest  kind  toward  this  unexpected  guest ;  and  she  was 
prepared  to  accost  him  with  a  reproof  for  his  extravagance 
in  undertaking  so  long  a  journey,  and  with  some  mortifying 
questions  concerning  the  business  which  brought  him  there. 
But  this  amiable  intention  was  put  to  flight,  when  Leonard, 
as  soon  as  she  entered  the  room,  informed  her,  that  having 
accepted  an  invitation  into  that  neighborhood,  from  his  friend 
and  fellow-collegian,  the  son  of  Sir  Lambert  Bowles,  he  had 
taken  the  earliest  opportunity  of  coming  to  pay  his  respects 
to  her,  and  acknowledging  his  obligations,  as  bound  alike 
by  duty  and  inclination.  The  name  of  Sir  Lambert  Bowles 
acted  upon  Miss  Trewbody  like  a  charm ;  and  its  mollify- 
ing effect  was  not  a  little  aided  by  the  tone  of  her  nephew's 
address,  and  the  sight  of  a  fine  youth  in  the  first  bloom  of 
manhood,  whose  appearance  and  manners  were  such,  that 
8*  L 


178  ROBERT   SOUTHEY. 

she  could  not  be  surprised  at  the  introduction  he  had  ob- 
tained into  one  of  the  first  families  in  the  county.  The 
scowl,  therefore,  which  she  brought  into  the  room  upon  her 
brow,  passed  instantly  away,  and  was  succeeded  by  so 
gracious  an  aspect,  that  Leonard,  if  he  had  not  divined  the 
cause,  might  have  mistaken  this  gleam  of  sunshine  for  fair 
weather. 

A  cause  which  Miss  Trewbody  could  not  possibly  suspect 
had  rendered  her  nephew's  address  thus  conciliatory.  Had 
he  expected  to  see  no  other  person  in  that  house,  the  visit 
would  have  been  performed  as  an  irksome  obligation,  and 
his  manner  would  have  appeared  as  cold  and  formal  as  the 
reception  which  he  anticipated.  But  Leonard  had  not  for- 
gotten the  playmate  and  companion  with  whom  the  happy 
years  of  his  childhood  had  been  passed.  Young  as  he  was 
at  their  separation,  his  character  had  taken  its  stamp  dur- 
ing those  peaceful  years,  and  the  impression  which  it  then 
received  was  indelible.  Hitherto  hope  had  never  been  to 
him  so  delightful  as  memory.  His  thoughts  wandered  back 
into  the  past  more  frequently  than  they  took  flight  into  the 
future ;  and  the  favorite  form  which  his  imagination  called 
up  was  that  of  the  sweet  child,  who  in  winter  partook  his 
bench  in  the  chimney-corner,  and  in  summer  sat  with  him 
in  the  porch,  and  strung  the  fallen  blossoms  of  jessamine 
upon  stalks  of  grass.  The  snowdrop  and  the  crocus  re- 
minded him  of  their  little  garden,  the  primrose  of  their 
sunny  orchard-bank,  and  the  bluebells  and  the  cowslip  of 
the  fields,  wherein  they  were  allowed  to  run  wild,  and 
gather  them  in  the  merry  month  of  May.  Such  as  she 
then  was  he  saw  her  frequently  in  sleep,  with  her  blue 
eyes,  and  rosy  cheeks,  and  flaxen  curls:  and  in  his  day- 
dreams he  sometimes  pictured  her  to  himself  such  as  he 
supposed  she  now  might  be,  and  dressed  up  the  image  with 
all  the  magic  of  ideal  beauty.  His  heart,  therefore,  was  at 
his  lips  when  he  inquired  for  his  cousin.  It  was  not  with- 


A   LOVE   STORY.  179 

out  something  like  fear,  and  an  apprehension  of  disappoint- 
ment, that  he  awaited  her  appearance  ;  and  he  was  secretly 
condemning  himself  for  the  romantic  folly  which  he  had 
encouraged,  when  the  door  opened,  and  a  creature  came  in, 
—  less  radiant,  indeed,  but  more  winning  than  his  fancy 
had  created,  for  the  loveliness  of  earth  and  reality  was 
about  her. 

"Margaret,"  said  Miss  Trewbody,  "do  you  remember 
your  cousin  Leonard  ?  " 

Before  she  could  answer,  Leonard  had  taken  her  hand. 
"'Tis  a  long  while,  Margaret,  since  we  parted!  —  ten 
years  !  —  But  I  have  not  forgotten  the  parting  —  nor  the 
blessed  days  of  our  childhood." 

She  stood  trembling  like  an  aspen  leaf,  and  looked  wist- 
fully in  his  face  for  a  moment,  then  hung  down  her  head, 
without  power  to  utter  a  word  in  reply.  But  he  felt  her 
tears  fall  fast  upon  his  hand,  and  felt  also  that  she  returned 
its  pressure. 

Leonard  had  some  difficulty  to  command  himself,  so  as  to 
bear  a  part  in  conversation  with  his  aunt,  and  keep  his  eyes 
and  his  thoughts  from  wandering.  He  accepted,  however, 
her  invitation  to  stay  and  dine  with  her  with  undissembled 
satisfaction,  and  the  pleasure  was  not  a  little  heightened 
when  she  left  the  room  to  give  some  necessary  orders  in 
consequence.  Margaret  still  sate  trembling  and  in  silence. 
He  took  her  hand,  pressed  it  to  his  lips,  and  said  in  a  low 
earnest  voice,  "  Dear,  dear  Margaret ! "  She  raised  her 
eyes,  and  fixing  them  upon  him  with  one  of  those  looks, 
the  perfect  remembrance  of  which  can  never  be  effaced  from 
the  heart  to  which  they  have  been  addressed,  replied  in  a 
lower  but  not  less  earnest  tone,  "  Dear  Leonard !  "  and  from 
that  moment  their  lot  was  sealed  for  time  and  for  eternity. 


180  EGBERT   SOUTHEY. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

MORE    CONCERNING   LOVE    AND    THE   DREAM    OF   LIFE. 

Happy  the  bonds  that  hold  ye; 
Sure  they  be  sweeter  far  than  liberty, 
There  is  no  blessedness  but  in  such  bondage; 
Happy  that  happy  chain  ;  such  links  are  heavenly. 

BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 

I  WILL  not  describe  the  subsequent  interviews  between 
Leonard  and  his  cousin,  short  and  broken,  but  precious  as 
they  were  ;  nor  that  parting  one,  in  which  hands  were 
plighted  with  the  sure  and  certain  knowledge  that  hearts 
had  been  interchanged.  Remembrance  will  enable  some  of 
my  readers  to  portray  the  scene,  and  then  perhaps  a  sigh 
may  be  heaved  for  the  days  that  are  gone  :  Hope  will  pic- 
ture it  to  others  —  and  with  them  the  sigh  will  be  for  the 
days  that  are  to  come. 

There  was  not  that  indefinite  deferment  of  hope  in  this 
case  at  which  the  heart  sickens.  Leonard  had  been  bred 
up  in  poverty  from  his  childhood  ;  a  parsimonious  allowance, 
grudgingly  bestowed,  had  contributed  to  keep  him  frugal  at 
college,  by  calling  forth  a  pardonable  if  not  a  commendable 
sense  of  pride  in  aid  of  a  worthier  principle.  He  knew 
that  he  could  rely  upon  himself  for  frugality,  industry,  and 
a  cheerful  as  well  as  a  contented  mind.  He  had  seen  the 
miserable  state  of  bondage  in  which  Margaret  existed  with 
her  aunt,  and  his  resolution  was  made  to  deliver  her  from 
that  bondage  as  soon  as  he  could  obtain  the  smallest  bene- 
fice on  which  it  was  possible  for  them  to  subsist.  They 
agreed  to  live  rigorously  within  their  means,  however  poor, 
and  put  their  trust  in  Providence.  They  could  not  be  de- 
ceived in  each  other,  for  they  had  grown  up  together;  and 
they  knew  that  they  were  not  deceived  in  themselves. 
Their  love  had  the  freshness  of  youth,  but  prudence  and 


A   LOVE  STORY.  181 

forethought  were  not  wanting;  the  resolution  which  they 
had  taken  brought  with  it  peace  of  mind,  and  no  misgiving 
was  felt  in  either  heart  when  they  prayed  for  a  blessing 
upon  their  purpose.  In  reality  it  had  already  brought  a 
blessing  with  it;  and  this  they  felt;  for  love,  when  it  de- 
serves that  name,  produces  in  us  what  may  be  called  a 
regeneration  of  its  own  —  a  second  birth  —  dimly,  but  yet 
in  some  degree,  resembling  that  which  is  effected  by  Divine 
Love  when  its  redeeming  work  is  accomplished  in  the  soul. 

Leonard  returned  to  Oxford  happier  than  all  this  world's 
wealth  or  this  world's  honors  could  have  made  him.  He 
had  now  a  definite  and  attainable  hope  —  an  object  in  life 
which  gave  to  life  itself  a  value.  For  Margaret,  the  world 
no  longer  seemed  to  her  like  the  same  earth  which  she  had 
till  then  inhabited.  Hitherto  she  had  felt  herself  a  forlorn 
and  solitary  creature,  without  a  friend;  and  the  sweet 
sounds  and  pleasant  objects  of  nature,  had  imparted  as  little 
cheerfulness  to  her  as  to  the  debtor  who  sees  green  fields  in 
sunshine  from  his  prison,  and  hears  the  lark  singing  at  lib- 
erty. Her  heart  was  open  now  to  all  the  exhilarating  and 
all  the  softening  influences  of  birds,  fields,  flowers,  vernal 
suns,  and  melodious  streams.  She  was  subject  to  the  same 
daily  and  hourly  exercise  of  meekness,  patience,  and  hu- 
mility ;  but  the  trial  was  no  longer  painful ;  with  love  in 
her  heart,  and  hope  and  sunshine  in  her  prospect,  she  found 
even  a  pleasure  in  contrasting  her  present  condition  with 
that  which  was  in  store  for  her. 

In  these  our  days  every  young  lady  holds  the  pen  of  a 
ready  writer,  and  words  flow  from  it  as  fast  as  it  can  indent 
its  zigzag  lines,  according  to  the  reformed  system  of  writing, 
—  which  said  system  improves  handwritings  by  making 
them  all  alike  arid  all  illegible.  At  that  time  women  wrote 
better  and  spelt  worse ;  but  letter-writing  was  not  one  of 
their  accomplishments.  It  had  not  yet  become  one  of  the 
general  pleasures  and  luxuries  of  life,  —  perhaps  the  greatest 


182  ROBERT   SOUTHEY. 

gratification  which  the  progress  of  civilization  has  given 
us.  There  was  then  no  mail-coach  to  waft  a  sigh  across  the 
country  at  the  rate  of  eight  miles  an  hour.  Letters  came 
slowly  and  with  long  intervals  between;  but  when  they 
came,  the  happiness  which  they  imparted  to  Leonard  and 
Margaret  lasted  during  the  interval,  however  long.  To 
Leonard  it  was  as  an  exhilarant  and  a  cordial  which  rejoiced 
and  strengthened  him.  He  trod  the  earth  with  a  lighter  and 
more  elated  movement  on  the  day  when  he  received  a  letter 
from  Margaret,  as  if  he  felt  himself  invested  with  an  impor- 
tance which  he  had  never  possessed  till  the  happiness  of  an- 
other human  being  was  inseparably  associated  with  his  own. 

So  proud  a  thing  it  was  for  him  to  wear 

Love's  golden  chain, 
With  which  it  is  best  freedom  to  be  bound.* 

Happy,  indeed,  if  there  be  happiness  on  earth,  as  that 
same  sweet  poet  says,  is  he 

Who  love  enjoys,  and  placed  hath  his  mind 
Where  fairest  virtues  fairest  beauties  grace, 

Then  in  himself  such  store  of  worth  doth  find 
That  he  deserves  to  find  so  good  a  place.* 

This  was  Leonard's  case ;  and  when  he  kissed  the  paper 
which  her  hand  had  pressed,  it  was  with  a  consciousness  of 
the  strength  and  sincerity  of  his  affection,  which  at  once  re- 
joiced and  fortified  his  heart.  To  Margaret  his  letters  were 
like  summer  dew  upon  the  herb  that  thirsts  for  such  refresh- 
ment. Whenever  they  arrived,  a  headache  became  the 
cause  or  pretext  for  retiring  earlier  than  usual  to  her  cham- 
ber, that  she  might  weep  and  dream  over  the  precious  lines. 

True  gentle  love  is  like  the  summer  dew, 

Which  falls  around  when  all  is  still  and  hush  ; 

And  falls  unseen  until  its  bright  drops  strew 

With  odors,  herb  and  flower,  and  bank  and  bush. 

*  Drummond. 


A   LOVE    STORY.  183 

O  love  !  —  when  womanhood  is  in  the  flush, 
And  man 's  a  young  and  an  unspotted  thing, 

His  first-breathed  word,  and  her  half-conscious  blush, 
Are  fair  as  light  in  heaven,  or  flowers  in  spring* 


CHAPTER    V. 

AN  EARLY  BEREAVEMENT.   TRUE  LOVE  ITS  OWN  COMFORTEE.   A 
LONELY  FATHER  AND  AN  ONLY  CHILD. 

Read  ye  that  run  the  awful  truth, 

With  which  I  charge  my  page; 
A  worm  is  in  the  bud  of  youth, 

And  at  the  root  of  age. 

COWPER. 

LEONARD  was  not  more  than  eight-and-twenty  when  he 
obtained  a  living,  a  few  miles  from  Doncaster.  He  took 
his  bride  with  him  to  the  vicarage.  The  house  was  as  hum- 
ble as  the  benefice,  which  was  worth  less  than  £  50  a  year  ; 
but  it  was  soon  made  the  neatest  cottage  in  the  country 
round,  and  upon  a  happier  dwelling  the  sun  never  shone. 
A  few  acres  of  good  glebe  were  attached  to  it ;  and  the  gar- 
den was  large  enough  to  afford  healthful  and  pleasurable 
employment  to  its  owners.  The  course  of  true  love  never 
ran  more  smoothly ;  but  its  course  was  short. 

0  how  this  spring  of  love  resembleth 

The  uncertain  glory  of  an  April  day, 
Which  now  shows  all  the  beauty  of  the  sun, 

And  by  and  by  a  cloud  takes  all  away  !  t 

Little  more  than  five  years  from  the  time  of  their  mar- 
riage had  elapsed,  before  a  head-stone  in  the  adjacent 
churchyard  told  where  the  remains  of  Margaret  Bacon  had 
been  deposited,  in  the  thirtieth  year  of  her  age. 

*  Allan  Cunningham.  t  Shakespeare. 


184  EGBERT    SOUTHEY. 

When  the  stupor  and  the  agony  of  that  bereavement  had 
passed  away,  the  very  intensity  of  Leonard's  affection  be- 
came a  source  of  consolation.  Margaret  had  been  to  him  a 
purely  ideal  object  during  the  years  of  his  youth;  death 
had  again  rendered  her  such.  Imagination  had  beautified 
and  idolized  her  then ;  faith  sanctified  and  glorified  her  now. 
She  had  been  to  him  on  earth  all  that  he  had  fancied,  all 
that  he  had  hoped,  all  that  he  had  desired.  She  would 
again  be  so  in  heaven.  And  this  second  union  nothing 
could  impede,  nothing  could  interrupt,  nothing  could  dis- 
solve. He  had  only  to  keep  himself  worthy  of  it  by  cher- 
ishing her  memory,  hallowing  his  heart  to  it  while  he  per- 
formed a  parent's  duty  to  their  child ;  and  so  doing  to  await 
his  own  summons,  which  must  one  day  come,  which  every 
day  was  brought  nearer,  and  which  any  day  might  bring. 

'T  is  the  only  discipline  we  are  born  for ; 
All  studies  else  are  but  as  circular  lines, 
And  death  the  centre  where  they  must  all  meet.* 

The  same  feeling  which  from  his  chidhood  had  refined 
Leonard's  heart,  keeping  it  pure  and  undefiled,  had  also 
corroborated  the  natural  strength  of  his  character,  and  made 
him  firm  of  purpose.  It  was  a  saying  of  Bishop  Andrewesj 
that  "  good  husbandry  is  good  divinity  "  ;  "  the  truth  where- 
of," says  Fuller,  "  no  wise  man  will  deny."  Frugality  he 
had  always  practised  as  a  needful  virtue,  and  found  that,  in 
an  especial  manner,  it  brings  with  it  its  own  reward.  He 
now  resolved  upon  scrupulously  setting  apart  a  fourth  of  his 
small  income  to  make  a  provision  for  his  child,  in  case  of 
her  surviving  him,  as  in  the  natural  course  of  things  might 
be  expected.  If  she  should  be  removed  before  him  —  for 
this  was  an  event  the  possibility  of  which  he  always  bore  in 
mind  —  he  had  resolved,  that  whatever  should  have  been 
accumulated  with  this  intent,  should  be  disposed  of  to  some 

*  Massinger. 


A  LOVE   STORY.  185 

other  pious  purpose,  —  for  such,  within  the  limits  to  which 
his  poor  means  extended,  he  properly  considered  this. 
And  having  entered  on  this  prudential  course  with  a  calm 
reliance  upon  Providence,  in  case  his  hour  should  come  be- 
fore that  purpose  could  be  accomplished,  he  was  without 
any  earthly  hope  or  fear,  —  those  alone  excepted  from 
which  no  parent  can  be  free. 

The  child  had  been  christened  Deborah,  after  her  maternal 
grandmother,  for  whom  Leonard  ever  gratefully  retained  a 
most  affectionate  and  reverential  remembrance.  She  was 
a  healthy,  happy  creature  in  body  and  in  mind ;  at  first 

one  of  those  little  prating  girls 
Of  whom  fond  parents  tell  such  tedious  stories  ;  * 

afterwards,  as  she  grew  up,  a  favorite  with  the  village 
schoolmistress,  and  with  the  whole  parish ;  docile,  good- 
natured,  lively  and  yet  considerate,  always  gay  as  a  lark  and 
busy  as  a  bee.  One  of  the  pensive  pleasures  in  which 
Leonard  indulged  was  to  gaze  on  her  unperceived,  and 
trace  the  likeness  to  her  mother. 

O  Christ ! 

How  that  which  was  the  life's  life  of  our  heing, 
Can  pass  away,  and  we  recall  it  thus  !  t 

That  resemblance  which  was  strong  in  childhood  lessened 
as  the  child  grew  up ;  for  Margaret's  countenance  had  ac- 
quired a  cast  of  meek  melancholy  during  those  years  in 
which  the  bread  of  bitterness  had  been  her  portion ;  and, 
when  hope  came  to  her,  it  was  that  "  hope  deferred,"  which 
takes  from  the  cheek  its  bloom,  even  when  the  heart,  instead 
of  being  made  sick,  is  sustained  by  it.  But  no  unhappy 
circumstances  depressed  the  constitutional  buoyancy  of  her 
daughter's  spirits.  Deborah  brought  into  the  world  the 

*  Dryden.  t  Isaac  Comnenus. 


186  ROBERT   SOUTHEY. 

happiest  of  all  nature's  endowments,  an  easy  temper  and  a 
light  heart.  Resemblant  therefore  as  the  features  were, 
the  dissimiltude  of  expression  was  more  apparent;  and 
when  Leonard  contrasted  in  thought  the  sunshine  of  hilarity 
that  lit  up  his  daughter's  face,  with  the  sort  of  moonlight 
loveliness  which  had  given  a  serene  and  saint-like  character 
to  her  mother's,  he  wished  to  persuade  himself,  that  as  the 
early  translation  of  the  one  seemed  to  have  been  thus  pre- 
figured, the  other  might  be  destined  to  live  for  the  happi- 
ness of  others  till  a  good  old  age,  while  length  of  years  in 
their  course  should  ripen  her  for  heaven. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

OBSERVATIONS  WHICH  SHOW,  THAT  WHATEVER  PRIDE  MEN  MAT 
TAKE  IN  THE  APPELLATIONS  THEY  ACQUIRE  IN  THEIR  PROGRESS 
THROUGH  THE  WORLD,  THEIR  DEAREST  NAME  DIES  BEFORE 
THEM. 

Thus  they  who  reach 
Gray  hairs,  die  piecemeal.  —  SOUTHEY. 

THE  name  of  Leonard  must  now  be  dropped  as  we  pro- 
ceed. Some  of  the  South  American  tribes,  among  whom 
the  Jesuits  labored  with  such  exemplary  zeal,  and  who  take 
their  personal  appellations  (as  most  names  were  originally 
derived)  from  beasts,  birds,  plants,  and  other  visible  objects, 
abolish  upon  the  death  of  every  individual  the  name  by 
which  he  was  called,  and  invent  another  for  the  thing  from 
which  it  was  taken,  so  that  their  language,  owing  to  this 
curiously  inconvenient  custom,  is  in  a  state  of  continual 
change.  An  abolition  almost  as  complete  with  regard  to 
the  person  had  taken  place  in  the  present  instance.  The 
name,  Leonard,  was  consecrated  to  him  by  all  his  dearest 
and  fondest  recollections.  He  had  been  known  by  it  on 


A  LOVE   STORY.  187 

his  mother's  knees,  and  in  the  humble  cottage  of  that  aunt 
who  had  been  to  him  a  second  mother ;  and  by  the  wife  of 
his  bosom,  his  first,  last,  and  only  love.  Margaret  had 
never  spoken  to  him,  never  thought  of  him,  by  any  other 
name.  From  the  hour  of  her  death,  no  human  voice  ever 
addressed  him  by  it  again.  He  never  heard  himself  so 
called,  except  in  dreams.  It  existed  only  in  the  dead  let- 
ter;  he  signed  it  mechanically  in  the  course  of  business, 
but  it  had  ceased  to  be  a  living  name. 

Men  willingly  prefix  a  handle  to  their  names,  and  tack 
on  to  them  any  two  or  more  honorary  letters  of  the  alphabet 
as  a  tail  ;  they  drop  their  surnames  for  a  dignity,  and 
change  them  for  an  estate  or  a  title.  They  are  pleased 
to  be  Doctor'd  and  Professor'd ;  to  be  Captain'd,  Major'd, 
Colonel'd,  General' d,  or  Admiral'd ;  to  be  Sir  John'd,  my- 
Lorded,  or  your-Grace'd.  "You  and  I,"  says  Cranmer  in 
his  Answer  to  Gardiner's  book  upon  Transubstantiation  — 
"you  and  I  were  delivered  from  our  surnames  when  we 
were  consecrated  Bishops  ;  sithence  which  time  we  have  so 
commonly  been  used  of  all  men  to  be  called  Bishops,  you  of 
"Winchester,  and  I  of  Canterbury,  that  the  most  part  of  the 
people  know  not  that  your  name  is  Gardiner,  and  mine 
Cranmer.  And  I  pray  God,  that  we  being  called  to  the 
name  of  Lords,  have  not  forgotten  our  own  baser  estates, 
that  once  we  were  simple  squires ! "  —  But  the  emotion  with 
which  the  most  successful  suitor  of  Fortune  hears  himself 
first  addressed  by  a  new  and  honorable  title,  conferred  upon 
him  for  his  public  deserts,  touches  his  heart  less  (if  that 
heart  be  sound  at  the  core),  than  when  after  long  absence, 
some  one  who  is  privileged  so  to  use  it,  accosts  him  by  his 
Christian  name,  —  that  household  name  which  he  has  never 
heard  but  from  his  nearest  relations,  and  his  old  familiar 
friends.  By  this  it  is  that  we  are  known  to  all  around  us 
in  childhood  ;  it  is  used  only  by  our  parents  and  our  nearest 
kin  when  that  stage  is  passed ;  and,  as  they  drop  off,  it  dies 
as  to  its  oral  uses  with  them. 


188  ROBERT   SOUTHEY.    . 

It  is  because  we  are  remembered  more  naturally  in  our 
family  and  paternal  circles  by  our  baptismal  than  our  he- 
reditary names,  and  remember  ourselves  more  naturally  by 
them,  that  the  Eoman  Catholic,  renouncing,  upon  a  princi- 
ple of  perverted  piety,  all  natural  ties  when  he  enters  a 
convent,  and  voluntarily  dies  to  the  world,  assumes  a  new 
one.  This  is  one  manifestation  of  that  intense  selfishness 
which  the  law  of  monastic  life  inculcates,  and  affects  to 
sanctify.  Alas,  there  need  no  motives  of  erroneous  relig- 
ion to  wean  us  from  the  ties  of  blood  and  of  affection  !  They 
are  weakened  and  dissolved  by  fatal  circumstances,  and  the 
ways  of  the  world,  too  frequently  and  too  soon. 

"  Our  men  of  rank,"  said  my  friend  one  day  when  he  was 
speaking  upon  this  subject,  "are  not  the  only  persons  who 
go  by  different  appellations  in  different  parts  of  their  lives. 
We  all  moult  our  names  in  the  natural  course  of  life.  I 
was  Dan  in  my  father's  house,  and  should  still  be  so  with 
my  uncle  William  and  Mr.  Guy,  if  they  were  still  living. 
Upon  my  removal  to  Doncaster,  my  master  and  mistress 
called  me  Daniel,  and  my  acquaintance  Dove.  In  Holland 
I  was  Mynheer  Duif.  Now  I  am  the  Doctor,  and  not 
among  my  patients  only ;  friends,  acquaintance,  and  stran- 
gers, address  me  by  this  appellation  ;  even  my  wife  calls 
me  by  no  other  name ;  and  I  shall  never  be  anything  but 
the  Doctor  again,  —  till  I  am  registered  at  my  burial  by  the 
same  name  as  at  my  christening." 

CHAPTER   VII. 

THE   DOCTOR  IS    INTRODUCED,   BY   THE  SMALL-POX,  TO   HIS  FUTUKE 


Long-waiting  love  doth  entrance  find 
Into  the  slow-believing  mind. 

SYDNEY  GODOLPHIN. 

WHEN  Deborah  was  about  nineteen,  the  small-pox  broke 
out  in   Doncaster,  and  soon  spread  over  the  surrounding 


A   LOVE  STORY.  189 

country,  occasioning  everywhere  a  great  mortality.  At 
that  time  inoculation  had  very  rarely  been  practised  in 
the  provinces ;  and  the  prejudice  against  it  was  so  strong, 
that  Mr.  Bacon,  though  convinced  in  his  own  mind  that  the 
practice  was  not  only  lawful,  but  advisable,  refrained  from 
having  his  daughter  inoculated  till  the  disease  appeared  in 
his  own  parish.  He  had  been  induced  to  defer  it  during 
her  childhood,  partly  because  he  was  unwilling  to  offend  the 
prejudices  of  his  parishioners,  which  he  hoped  to  overcome 
by  persuasion  and  reasoning  when  time  and  opportunity 
might  favor ;  still  more,  because  he  thought  it  unjustifiable 
to  introduce  such  a  disease  into  his  own  house,  with  immi- 
nent risk  of  communicating  it  to  others,  which  were  other- 
wise in  no  danger,  in  which  the  same  preparations  would 
not  be  made,  and  where,  consequently,  the  danger  would  be 
greater.  But  when  the  malady  had  shown  itself  in  the  par- 
ish, then  he  felt  that  his  duty  as  a  parent  required  him  to 
take  the  best  apparent  means  for  the  preservation  of  his 
child ;  and  that  as  a  pastor  also  it  became  him  now  in  his 
own  family  to  set  an  example  to  his  parishioners. 

Deborah,  who  had  the  most  perfect  reliance  upon  her 
father's  judgment,  and  lived  in  entire  accordance  with  his 
will  in  all  things,  readily  consented ;  and  seemed  to  regard 
the  beneficial  consequences  of  the  experiment  to  others  with 
hope,  rather  than  to  look  with  apprehension  to  it  for  herself. 
Mr.  Bacon  therefore  went  to  Doncaster  and  called  upon 
Mr.  Dove.  "  I  do  not,"  said  he,  "  ask  whether  you  would 
advise  me  to  have  my  daughter  inoculated  ;  where  so  great 
a  risk  is  to  be  incurred,  in  the  case  of  an  only  child,  you 
might  hesitate  to  advise  it.  But  if  you  see  nothing  in  her 
present  state  of  health,  or  in  her  constitutional  tendencies, 
which  would  render  it  more  than  ordinarily  dangerous,  it  is 
her  own  wish  and  mine,  after  due  consideration  on  my  part, 
that  she  should  be  committed  to  your  care,  —  putting  our 
trust  in  Providence." 


190  ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 

Hitherto  there  had  been  no  acquaintance  between  Mr. 
Bacon  and  the  Doctor,  farther  than  that  they  knew  each 
other  by  sight  and  by  good  report.  This  circumstance  led 
to  a  growing  intimacy.  During  the  course  of  his  attend- 
ance, the  Doctor  fell  in  friendship  with  the  father,  and  the 
father  with  him. 

"  Did  he  fall  in  love  with  his  patient?" 

"No,  ladies." 

You  have  already  heard  that  he  once  fell  in  love,  and 
how  it  happened.  And  you  have  also  been  informed  that 
he  caught  love  once,  though  I  have  not  told  you  how, 
because  it  would  have  led  me  into  too  melancholy  a  tale. 
In  this  case  he  neither  fell  in  love,  nor  caught  it,  nor  ran 
into  it,  nor  walked  into  it ;  nor  was  he  overtaken  in  it,  as  a 
boon  companion  in  liquor,  or  a  runaway  in  his  flight.  Yet 
there  was  love  between  the  parties  at  last,  and  it  was  love  for 
love,  to  the  heart's  content  of  both.  How  this  came  to  pass 
will  be  related  at  the  proper  time  and  in  the  proper  place. 

For  here  let  me  set  before  the  judicious  reader  certain 
pertinent  remarks  by  the  pious  and  well-known  author  of  a 
popular  treatise  upon  the  Right  Use  of  Reason, —  a  trea- 
tise which  has  been  much  read  to  little  purpose.  That  au- 
thor observes,  that  "  those  writers  and  speakers  whose  chief 
business  is  to  amuse  or  delight,  to  allure,  terrify,  or  persuade 
mankind,  do  not  confine  themselves  to  any  natural  order,  but 
in  a  cryptical  or  hidden  method,  adapt  everything  to  their 
designed  ends.  Sometimes  they  omit  those  things  which 
might  injure  their  design,  or  grow  tedious  to  their  hearers, 
though  they  seem  to  have  a  necessary  relation  to  the  point  in 
hand ;  sometimes  they  add  those  things  which  have  no  great 
reference  to  the  subject,  but  are  suited  to  allure  or  refresh 
the  mind  and  the  ear.  They  dilate  sometimes,  and  flourish 
long  upon  little  incidents,  and  they  skip  over,  and  but 
lightly  touch  the  dryer  part  of  the  theme.  They  omit  things 
essential  which  are  not  beautiful ;  they  insert  little  needless 


A   LOVE   STOEY.  191 

circumstances,  and  beautiful  digressions :  they  invert  times 
and  actions,  in  order  to  place  everything  in  the  most  affect- 
ing light;  —  they  place  the  first  things  last,  and  the  last 
things  first  with  wondrous  art ;  and  yet  so  manage  it  as  to 
conceal  their  artifice,  and  lead  the  senses  and  passions  of 
their  hearers  into  a  pleasing  and  powerful  captivity." 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

ME.    BACON'S     PARSONAGE.       CHRISTIAN     RESIGNATION.       TIME    AND 
CHANGE.       WILKIE   AND    THE    MONK    IN    THE    ESCURIAL. 

The  idea  of  her  life  shall  sweetly  creep 

Into  his  study  of  imagination; 

And  every  lovely  organ  of  her  life 

Shall  come  apparelled  in  more  precious  habit, 

More  moving  delicate,  and  full  of  life, 

Into  the  eye  and  prospect  of  his  soul, 

Than  when  she  lived  indeed. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

IN  a  Scotch  village  the  Manse  is  sometimes  the  only  good 
house,  and  generally  it  is  the  best ;  almost,  indeed,  what  in 
old  times  the  Mansion  used  to  be  in  an  English  one.  In  Mr. 
Bacon's  parish,  the  vicarage,  though  humble  as  the  benefice 
itself,  was  the  neatest.  The  cottage  in  which  he  and  Marga- 
ret passed  their  childhood,  had  been  remarkable  for  that  com- 
fort which  is  the  result  and  the  reward  of  order  and  neatness : 
and  when  the  reunion  which  blessed  them  both  rendered  the 
remembrance  of  those  years  delightful,  they  returned  in 
this  respect  to  the  way  in  which  they  had  been  trained  up, 
practised  the  economy  which  they  had  learned  there,  and 
loved  to  think  how  entirely  their  course  of  life,  in.  all  its  cir- 
cumstances, would  be  after  the  heart  of  that  person,  if  she 
could  behold  it,  whose  memory  they  both  with  equal  affec- 
tion cherished.  After  his  bereavement,  it  was  one  of  the 
widower's  pensive  pleasures  to  keep  everything  in  the  same 


192  ROBERT   SOUTHEY. 

state  as  when  Margaret  was  living.  Nothing  was  neglected 
that  she  used  to  do,  or  that  she  would  have  done.  .The 
flowers  were  tended  as  carefully  as  if  she  were  still  to  enjoy 
their  fragrance  and  their  beauty ;  and  the  birds  who  came 
in  winter  for  their  crumbs,  were  fed  as  duly  for  her  sake,  as 
they  had  formerly  been  by  her  hands. 

There  was  no  superstition  in  this,  nor  weakness.  Im- 
moderate grief,  if  it  does  not  exhaust  itself  by  indulgence, 
easily  assumes  the  one  character  or  the  other,  or  takes  a 
type  of  insanity.  But  he  had  looked  for  consolation,  where, 
when  sincerely  sought,  it  is  always  to  be  found  ;  and  he  had 
experienced  that  religion  effects  in  a  true  believer  all  that 
philosophy  professes,  and  more  than  all  that  mere  philos- 
ophy can  perform.  The  wounds  which  stoicism  would  cau- 
terize, religion  heals. 

There  is  a  resignation  with  which,  it  may  be  feared, 
most  of  us  deceive  ourselves.  To  bear  what  must  be 
borne,  and  submit  to  what  cannot  be  resisted,  is  no  more 
than  what  the  unregenerate  heart  is  taught  -by  the  instinct 
of  animal  nature.  But  to  acquiesce  in  the  afflictive  dispen- 
sations of  Providence,  —  to  make  one's  own  will  conform  in 
all  things  to  that  of  our  Heavenly  Father,  —  to  say  to  him 
in  the  sincerity  of  faith,  when  we  drink  of  the  bitter  cup, 
"  Thy  will  be  done  ! "  —  to  bless  the  name  of  the  Lord  as 
much  from  the  heart  when  he  takes  away  as  when  he  gives, 
and  with  a  depth  of  feeling,  of  which,  perhaps,  none  but  the 
afflicted  heart  is  capable,  —  this  is  the  resignation  which  re- 
ligion teaches,  this  the  sacrifice  which  it  requires.*  This 
sacrifice  Leonard  had  made,  and  he  felt  that  it  was  accepted. 

*  This  passage  was  written  when-  Southey  was  bowing  his  head 
under  the  sorest  and  saddest  of  his  many  troubles.  He  thus  alludes 
to  it  in  a  letter  to  J.  W.  Waiter,  dated  October  5,  1834. 

"  On  the  next  leaf  is  the  passage  of  which  I  spoke  in  my  letter  from 
York.  It  belongs  to  an  early  chapter  in  the  third  volume ;  and  very- 
remarkable  it  is  that  it  should  have  been  written  just  at  that  time." 


A   LOVE    STORY.  193 

Severe,  therefore,  as  his  loss  had  been,  and  lasting  as  its 
effects  were,  it  produced  in  him  nothing  like  a  settled  sor- 
row, nor  even  that  melancholy  which  sorrow  leaves  behind. 
Gibbon  has  said  to  himself,  that  as  a  mere  philosopher  he 
could  not  agree  with  the  Greeks,  in  thinking  that  those  who 
die  in  their  youth  are  favored  by  the  Gods  : 

eOv  of  6fol  <f>ihov<riv  dirodirf)  cruel  vtos. 


It  was  because  he  was  "a  mere  philosopher,"  that  he 
failed  to  perceive  a  truth  which  the  religious  heathen  ac- 
knowledged, and  which  is  so  trivial,  and  of  such  practical 
value,  that  it  may  now  be  seen  inscribed  upon  village  tomb- 
stones. The  Christian  knows  that  "Blessed  are  the  dead 
which  die  in  the  Lord  ;  even  so  saith  the  Spirit."  And  the 
heart  of  the  Christian  mourner,  in  its  deepest  distress,  hath 
the  witness  of  the  Spirit  to  that  consolatory  assurance. 

In  this  faith  Leonard  regarded  his  bereavement.  His 
loss,  he  knew,  had  been  Margaret's  gain.  What,  if  she  had 
been  summoned  in  the  flower  of  her  years,  and  from  a  state 
of  connubial  happiness  which  there  had  been  nothing  to  dis- 
turb or  to  alloy  ?  How  soon  might  that  flower  have  been 
blighted,  —  how  surely  must  it  have  faded,  —  how  easily 
might  that  happiness  have  been  interrupted,  by  some  of 
those  evils  which  flesh  is  heir  to  !  And  as  the  separation 
was  to  take  place,  how  mercifully  had  it  been  appointed 
that  he,  who  was  the  stronger  vessel,  should  be  the  survivor  ! 
Even  for  their  child  this  was  the  best,  greatly  as  she  needed, 
and  would  need,  a  mother's  care.  His  paternal  solicitude 
would  supply  that  care,  as  far  as  it  was  possible  to  supply 
it  ;  but  had  he  been  removed,  mother  and  child  must  have 
been  left  to  the  mercy  of  Providence,  without  any  earthly 
protector,  or  any  means  of  support. 

For  her  to  die  was  gain  ;  in  him,  therefore,  it  were  sinful 
as  well  as  selfish  to  repine,  and  of  such  selfishness  and  sin 
his  heart  acauitted  him.  If  a  wish  could  have  recalled  her 


194  ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 

to  life,  no  such  wish  would  ever  have  by  him  been  uttered, 
nor  ever  have  by  him  been  felt;  certain  he  was,  that  he 
loved  her  too  well  to  bring  her  again  into  this  world  of  in- 
stability arid  trial.  Upon  earth  there  can  be  no  safe  happi- 
ness. 

Ah !  male  FORTUNE;  devota  est  ara  MANENTI. 
Fallit,  et  hcec nullas  accipit  ara preces* 

All  things  here  are  subject  to  Time  and  Mutability : 

Quod  till  largo,  dedit  Hara  dextra, 
Hora  furaci  rapid,  sinistra.^ 

We  must  be  in  eternity  before  we  can  be  secure  against 
cnange.  "  The  world,"  says  Cowper,  "  upon  which  we  close 
our  eyes  at  night,  is  never  the  same  with  that  on  which  we 
open  them  in  the  morning." 

It  was  to  the  perfect  Order  he  should  find  in  that  state 
upon  which  he  was  about  to  enter,  that  the  judicious  Hooker 
looked  forward  at  his  death  with  placid  and  profound  con- 
tentment. Because  he  had  been  employed  in  contending 
against  a  spirit  of  insubordination  and  schism  which  soon 
proved  fatal  to  his  country  ;  and  because  his  life  had  been 
passed  under  the  perpetual  discomfort  of  domestic  discord, 
the  happiness  of  Heaven  seemed,  in  his  estimation,  to  consist 
primarily  in  Order,  as,  indeed,  in  all  human  societies  this  is 
the  first  thing  needful.  The  discipline  which  Mr.  Bacon  had 
undergone  was  very  different  in  kind :  what  he  delighted  to 
think  was,  that  the  souls  of  those  whom  death  and  redemp- 
tion have  made  perfect,  are  in  a  world  where  there  is  no 
change,  nor  parting,  —  where  nothing  fades,  nothing  passes 
away  and  is  no  more  seen,  but  the  good  and  the  beautiful 
are  permanent. 

Miser,  chi  speme  in  cosa  mortal  pone ; 
Ma,  chi  non  ve  la  pone  ?  J 

*  Wallius.  t  Casimir.  J  Petrarch. 


A  LOVE   STORY.  195 

When  "Wilkie  was  in  the  Escurial  looking  at  Titian's 
famous  picture  of  the  Last  Supper,  in  the  refectory  there, 
an  old  Jeronimite  said  to  him,  "  I  have  sat  daily  in  sight  of 
that  picture  for  now  nearly  threescore  years ;  during  that 
time  my  companions  have  dropped  off,  one  after  another,  — 
all  who  were  my  seniors,  all  who  were  my  contemporaries, 
and  many,  or  most  of  those  who  were  younger  than  myself; 
more  than  one  generation  has  passed  away,  and  there  the 
figures  in  the  picture  have  remained  unchanged !  I  look  at 
them  till  I  sometimes  think  that  they  are  the  realities,  and 
we  but  shadows  ! "  * 

I  wish  I  could  record  the  name  of  the  monk  by  whom 
that  natural  feeling  was  so  feelingly  and  strikingly  ex- 
pressed. 

"  The  shows  of  things  are  better  than  themselves," 

says  the  author  of  the  Tragedy  of  Nero,  whose  name  also 
I  could  wish  had  "been  forthcoming ;  and  the  classical  reader 
will  remember  the  lines  of  Sophocles :  — 

'Op<3  yap  THJLCIS  ouSei/  ovras  oXXo,  ir\t)v 
EiScuX',  ocrotTTfp  £c3^ev,  77  Koixprjv  (TKtdv.  t 

These  are  reflections  which  should  make  us  think 

Of  that  same  time  when  no  more  change  shall  be, 

But  steadfast  rest  of  all  things,  firmly  stayd 

Upon  the  pillars  of  Eternity, 

That  is  contraire  to  mutability ; 

For  all  that  moveth  doth  in  change  delight : 

But  thenceforth  all  shall  rest  eternally 

With  Him  that  is  the  God  of  Sabaoth  hight, 

O  that  great  Sabaoth  God  grant  me  that  sabbath's  sight.} 

*  See  the  very  beautiful  lines  of  Wordsworth  in  the  "  Yarrow 
Revisited."  The  affecting  incident  is  introduced  in  "Lines  on  a 
Portrait." 

\  Sophocles.  J  Spenser. 


196  ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

A  COUNTRY  PARISH.  SOME  WHOLESOME  EXTRACTS,  SOME  TRUE 
ANECDOTES,  AND  SOME  USEFUL  HINTS,  WHICH  WILL  NOT  BE 
TAKEN  BY  THOSE  WHO  NEED  THEM  MOST. 

Non  e  inconveniente,  che  ddle  cose  ddettabili  alcune  ne  sieno  utili,  cosi  come 
dell'  utili  molte  ne  sono  ddettabili,  et  in  tutte  due  alcune  si  truovano 
honeste. 

LEONE  MEDICO  (HEBREO.) 

MR.  BACON  s  parsonage  was  as  humble  a  dwelling  in  all 
respects  as  the  cottage  in  which  his  friend  Daniel  was  born. 
A  best  kitchen  was  its  best  room,  and  in  its  furniture  an 
Observantine  Friar  would  have  seen  nothing  that  he  could 
have  condemned  as  superfluous.  His  college  and  later 
school  books,  with  a  few  volumes  which  had  been  presented 
to  him  by  the  more  grateful  of  his  pupils,  composed  his 
scanty  library  :  they  were  either  books  of  needful  reference, 
or  such  as  upon  every  fresh  perusal  might  afford  new 
delight.  But  he  had  obtained  the  use  of  the  Church  Li- 
brary at  Doncaster  by  a  payment  of  twenty  shillings,  accord- 
ing to  the  terms  of  the  foundation.  Folios  from  that 
collection  might  be  kept  three  months,  smaller  volumes, 
one  or  two,  according  to  their  size;  and  as  there  were 
many  works  in  it  of  solid  contents  as  well  as  sterling  value, 
he  was  in  no  such  want  of  intellectual  food,  as  too  many  of 
his  brethren  are,  even  at  this  time.  How  much  good  might 
have  been  done,  and  how  much  evil  might  probably  have 
been  prevented,  if  Dr.  Bray's  design  for  the  foundation 
of  parochial  libraries  had  been  everywhere  carried  into 
effect ! 

The  parish  contained  between  five  and  six  hundred  souls. 
There  was  no  one  of  higher  rank  among  them  than  entitled 
him,  according  to  the  custom  of  those  days,  to  be  styled 


A   LOVE   STORY.  197 

gentleman  upon  his  tombstone.  They  were  plain  people, 
who  had  neither  manufactories  to  corrupt,  alehouses  to 
brutalize,  nor  newspapers  to  mislead  them.  At  first  com- 
ing among  them  he  had  won  their  good-will  by  his  affability 
and  benign  conduct,  and  he  had  afterwards  gained  their 
respect  and  affection  in  an  equal  degree. 

There  were  two  services  at  his  church,  but  only  one  ser- 
mon, which  never  fell  short  of  fifteen  minutes  in  length,  and 
seldom  extended  to  half  an  hour.  It  was  generally  abridged 
from  some  good  old  divine.  His  own  compositions  were 
few,,  and  only  upon  points  on  which  he  wished  carefully 
to  examine  and  digest  his  own  thoughts,  or  which  were 
peculiarly  suited  to  some  or  other  of  his  hearers.  His  whole 
stock  might  be  deemed  scanty  in  these  days  ;  but  there  was 
not  one  in  it  which  would  not  well  bear  repetition,  and  the 
more  observant  of  his  congregation  liked  that  they  should  be 
repeated. 

Young  ministers  are  earnestly  advised  long  to  refrain 
from  preaching  their  own  productions,  in  an  excellent  little 
book  addressed  by  a  Father  to  his  Son,  preparatory  to  his 
receiving  holy  orders.  Its  title  is  a  "  Monitor  for  Young 
Ministers,"  and  every  parent  who  has  a  son  so  circum- 
stanced would  do  well  to  put  it  into  his  hands.  "  It  is  not 
possible,"  says  this  judicious  writer,  "  that  a  young  minister 
can  at  first  be  competent  to  preach  his  sermons  with  effect, 
even  if  his  abilities  should  qualify  him  to  write  well.  His 
very  youth  and  youthful  manner,  both  in  his  style  of  writing 
and  in  his  delivery,  will  preclude  him  from  being  effective. 
Unquestionably  it  is  very  rare  indeed  for  a  man  of  his  age 
to  have  his  mental  abilities  sufficiently  chastened,  or  his 
method  sufficiently  settled,  to  be  equal  to  the  composition 
of  a  sermon  fit  for  public  use,  even  if  it  should  receive  the 
advantage  of  chaste  and  good  delivery.  On  every  account, 
therefore,  it  is  wise  and  prudent  to  be  slow  and  backward  in 
venturing  to  produce  his  own  efforts,  or  in  thinking  that 


198  ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 

they  are  fit  for  the  public  ear.  There  is  an  abundant  field 
of  the  works  of  others  open  to  him  from  the  wisest  and  the 
best  of  men,  the  weight  of  whose  little  fingers,  in  argument 
or  instruction,  will  be  greater  than  his  own  loins  even  at  his 
highest  maturity.  There  is  clearly  no  want  of  new  compo- 
sitions, excepting  on  some  new  or  occasional  emergencies : 
for  there  is  not  an  open  subject  in  the  Christian  religion, 
which  has  not  been  discussed  by  men  of  the  greatest  learn- 
ing and  piety,  who  have  left  behind  them  numerous  works 
for  our  assistance  and  edification.  Many  of  these  are  so 
neglected  that  they  are  become  almost  new  ground  for  our 
generation.  To  these  he  may  freely  resort,  —  till  expe- 
rience and  a  rational  and  chastened  confidence  shall  warrant 
him  in  believing  himself  qualified  to  work  upon  his  own 
resources." 

"  He  that  learns  of  young  men,"  says  Rabbi  Jose  Bar 
Jehudah,  "  is  like  a  man  that  eats  unripe  grapes,  or  that 
drinks  wine  out  of  the  wine-press ;  but  he  that  learneth  of 
the  ancient,  is  like  a  man  that  eateth  ripe  grapes,  and  drink- 
eth  wine  that  is  old."  * 

It  was  not  in  pursuance  of  any  judicious  advice  like  this 
that  Mr.  Bacon  followed  the  course  here  pointed  out,  but 
from  his  own  good  sense  and  natural  humility.  His  only 
ambition  was  to  be  useful ;  if  a  desire  may  be  called  ambi- 
tious which  orgiuated  in  the  sincere  sense  of  duty.  To 
think  of  distinguishing  himself  in  any  other  way,  would  for 
him,  he  well  knew,  have  been  worse  than  an  idle  dream. 
The  time  expended  in  composing  a  sermon  as  a  perfunctory 
official  business,  would  have  been  worse  than  wasted  for 
himself,  and  the  time  employed  in  delivering  it,  no  better 
than  wasted  upon  his  congregation.  He  was  especially 
careful  never  to  weary  them,  and,  therefore,  never  to  preach 
anything  which  was  not  likely  to  engage  their  attention, 
and  make  at  least  some  present  impression.  His  own  ser- 

*  Lightfoot. 


A   LOVE   STORY.  199 

mons  effected  this,  because  they  were  always  composed  with 
some  immediate  view,  or  under  the  influence  of  some  deep 
and  strong  feeling:  and  in  his  adopted  ones,  the  different 
manner  of  the  different  authors  produced  an  awakening 
effect.  Good  sense  is  as  often  to  be  found  among  the  illit- 
erate, as  among  those  who  have  enjoyed  the  opportunities 
of  education.  Many  of  his  hearers  who  knew  but  one 
meaning  of  the  word  style,  and  had  never  heard  it  used  in 
any  other,  perceived  a  difference  in  the  manner  of  Bishops 
Hall  and  Sanderson  and  Jeremy  Taylor,  of  Barrow  and 
South  and  Scott,  without  troubling  themselves  about  the 
cause,  or  being  in  the  slightest  degree  aware  of  it. 

Mr.  Bacon  neither  undervalued  his  parishioners,  nor  over- 
valued the  good  which  could  be  wrought  among  them  by 
direct  instruction  of  this  kind.  While  he  used  perspicuous 
language,  he  knew  that  they  who  listened  to  it  would  be 
able  to  follow  the  argument ;  and  as  he  drew  always  from 
the  wells  of  English  undefiled,  he  was  safe  on  that  point. 
But  that  all  even  of  the  adults  would  listen,  and  that  all 
even  of  those  who  did,  would  do  anything  more  than  hear, 
he  was  too  well  acquainted  with  human  nature  to  expect. 

A  woman  in  humble  life  was  asked  one  day  on  the  way 
back  from  church,  whether  she  had  understood  the  sermon ; 
a  stranger  had  preached,  and  his  discourse  resembled  one  of 
Mr.  Bacon's  neither  in  length  nor  depth.  "  "Wud  I  hae  the 
persumption  ?  "  was  her  simple  and  contented  answer.  The 
quality  of  the  discourse  signified  nothing  to  her ;  she  had 
done  her  duty,  as  well  as  she  could,  in  hearing  it ;  and  she 
went  to  her  house  justified  rather  than  some  of  those  who 
had  attended  to  it  critically ;  or  who  had  turned  to  the  text 
in  their  Bibles  when  it  was  given  out. 

"  Well,  Master  Jackson,"  said  his  minister,  walking  home- 
ward after  service  with  an  industrious  laborer,  who  was  a 
constant  attendant ;  "  well,  Master  Jackson,  Sunday  must  be 
a  blessed  day  of  rest  for  you,  who  work  so  hard  all  the 


200  EGBERT    SOUTHEY. 

week !  And  you  make  a  good  use  of  the  day,  for  you  are 
always  to  be  seen  at  church!" — "Ay,  sir,"  replied  Jack- 
son, "  it  is  indeed  a  blessed  day ;  I  works  hard  enough  ah1 
the  week,  and  then  I  conies  to  church  o'  Sundays,  and  sets 
me  down,  and  lays  my  legs  up,  and  thinks  o'  nothing." 

"  Let  my  candle  go  out  in  a  stink,  when  I  refuse  to  con- 
fess from  whom  I  have  lighted  it."  *  The  author  to  whose 
little  book  f  I  am  beholden  for  this  true  anecdote,  after  say- 
ing, "  Such  was  the  religion  of  this  worthy  man,"  justly 
adds,  "  and  such  must  be  the  religion  of  most  men  of  his  sta- 
tion. Doubtless,  it  is  a  wise  dispensation  that  it  is  so. 
For  so  it  has  been  from  the  beginning  of  the  world,  and 
there  is  no  visible  reason  to  suppose  that  it  can  ever  be 
otherwise." 

"  In  spite,"  says  this  judicious  writer,  "  of  all  the  zealous 
wishes  and  efforts  of  the  most  pious  and  laborious  teachers, 
the  religion  of  the  bulk  of  the  people  must  and  will  ever  be 
little  more  than  mere  habit,  and  confidence  in  others.  This 
must  of  necessity  be  the  case  with  all  men,  who,  from  defect 
of  nature  or  education,  or  from  other  worldy  causes,  have 
not  the  power  or  the  disposition  to  think ;  and  it  cannot  be 
disputed  that  the  far  greater  number  of  mankind  are  of  this 
class.  These  facts  give  peculiar  force  to  those  lessons 
which  teach  the  importance  and  efficacy  of  good  example 
from  those  who  are  blessed  with  higher  qualifications ;  and 
they  strongly  demonstrate  the  necessity,  that  the  zeal  of 
those  who  wish  to  impress  the  people  with  the  deep  and 
awful  mysteries  of  religion  should  be  tempered  by  wisdom 
and  discretion,  no  less  than  by  patience,  forbearance,  and 
a  great  latitude  of  indulgence  for  uncontrollable  circum- 
stances. They  also  call  upon  us  most  powerfully  to  do  all 
we  can  to  provide  such  teachers,  and  imbue  them  with  such 
principles  as  shall  not  endanger  the  good  cause  by  over 

*  Fuller.  t  Few  Words  on  many  Subjects. 


A  LOVE   STORY.  201 

earnest  efforts  to  effect  more  than,  in  the  nature  of  things, 
can  be  done ;  or  disturb  the  existing  good  by  attempting 
more  than  will  be  borne,  or  by  producing  hypocritical  pre- 
tences of  more  than  can  be  really  felt." 


CHAPTER   X. 

SHOWING  HOW  THE  VICAR  DEALT  WITH  THE  JUVENILE  PART  OF 
HIS  FLOCK  J  AND  HOW  HE  WAS  OF  OPINION  THAT  THE  MORE 
PLEASANT  THE  WAT  IN  WHICH  CHILDREN  ARE  TRAINED  UP  TO 
GO  CAN  BE  MADE  FOR  THEM,  THE  LESS  LIKELY  THEY  WILL 
BE  TO  DEPART  FROM  IT. 

Sweet  were  the  sauce  would  please  each  kind  of  taste, 
The  life,  likewise,  were  pure  that  never  swerved; 

For  spiteful  tongues,  in  cankered  stomachs  placed, 
Deem  worst  of  things  which  best,  percase,  deserved. 

But  what  for  that  ?     This  medicine  may  suffice, 

To  scorn  the  rest,  and  seek  to  please  the  wise. 

SIR  WALTER  RALEIGH. 

THE  first  thing  which  Mr.  Bacon  had  done  after  taking 
possession  of  his  vicarage,  and  obtaining  such  information 
about  his  parishioners  as  the  more  considerate  of  them 
could  impart,  was  to  inquire  into  the  state  of  the  children 
in  every  household.  He  knew  that  to  win  the  mother's 
good-will  was  the  surest  way  to  win  that  of  the  family,  and 
to  win  the  children  was  a  good  step  toward  gaining  that 
of  the  mother.  In  those  days  reading  and  writing  were 
thought  as  little  necessary  for  the  lower  class,  as  the  art 
of  spelling  for  the  class  above  them,  or  indeed  for  any 
except  the  learned.  Their  ignorance  in  this  respect  was 
sometimes  found  to  be  inconvenient,  but  by  none,  perhaps, 
except  here  and  there  by  a  conscientious  and  thoughtful 
clergyman,  was  it  felt  to  be  an  evil,  —  an  impediment  in 
the  way  of  that  moral  and  religious  instruction,  without 

which  men  are  in  danger  of  becoming  as  the  beasts  that 
9* 


202  ROBERT   SOUTHEY. 

perish.  Yet  the  common  wish  of  advancing  their  children 
in  the  world,  made  most  parents  in  this  station  desire  to 
obtain  the  advantage  of  what  they  called  book-learning  for 
any  son,  who  was  supposed  to  manifest  a  disposition  likely 
to  profit  by  it.  To  make  him  a  scholar  was  to  raise  him  a 
step  above  themselves. 

Qui  ha  les  lettres,  ha  I'adresse 

Au  double  d'un  qui  n'en  ha  point.* 

Partly  for  this  reason,  and  still  more  that  industrious  moth- 
ers might  be  relieved  from  the  care  of  looking  after  their 
children,  there  were  few  villages  in  which,  as  in  Mr. 
Bacon's  parish,  some  poor  woman  in  the  decline  of  life  and 
of  fortune  did  not  obtain  day-scholars  enough  to  eke  out  her 
scanty  means  of  subsistence. 

The  village  schoolmistress,  such  as  Shenstone  describes 

O  * 

in  his  admirable  poem,  and  such  as  Kirke  White  drew  from 
the  life,  is  no  longer  a  living  character.  The  new  system 
of  education  has  taken  from  this  class  of  women  the  staff 
of  their  declining  age,  as  the  spinning-jennies  have  silenced 
the  domestic  music  of  the  spinning-wheel.  Both  changes 
have  come  on  unavoidably  in  the  progress  of  human  affairs. 
It  is  well  when  any  change  brings  with  it  nothing  worse 
than  some  temporary  and  incidental  evil ;  but  if  the  moral 
machinery  can  counteract  the  great  and  growing  evils  of 
the  manufacturing  system,  it  will  be  the  greatest  moral 
miracle  that  has  ever  been  wrought. 

Sunday  schools,  which  make  Sunday  a  day  of  toil  to  the 
teachers,  and  the  most  irksome  day  of  the  week  to  the  chil- 
dren, had  not  at  that  time  been  devised  as  a  palliative  for 
the  profligacy  of  large  towns,  and  the  worsened  and  worsen- 
ing condition  of  the  poor.  Mr.  Bacon  endeavored  to  make 
the  parents  perform  their  religious  duty  toward  their  chil- 
dren, either  by  teaching  them  what  they  could  themselves 
teach,  or  by  sending  them  where  their  own  want  of  knowl- 
*  Baif. 


A   LOVE   STORY.  203 

edge  might  be  supplied.  Whether  the  children  went  to 
school  or  not,  it  was  his  wish  that  they  should  be  taught 
their  prayers,  the  Creed,  and  the  Commandments,  at  home. 
These  he  thought  were  better  learned  at  the  mother's  knees 
than  from  any  other  teacher ;  and  he  knew  also  how  whole- 
some for  the  mother  it  was,  that  the  child  should  receive 
from  her  its  first  spiritual  food,  the  milk  of  sound  doctrine. 
In  a  purely  agi'icultural  parish,  there  were  at  that  time  no 
parents  in  a  state  of  such  brutal  ignorance  as  to  be  unable 
to  teach  these,  though  they  might  never  have  been  taught 
to  read.  When  the  father  or  mother  could  read,  he  ex- 
pected that  they  should  also  teach  their  children  the 
Catechism ;  in  other  cases  this  was  left  to  his  humble 
coadjutrix,  the  schoolmistress. 

During  the  summer  and  part  of  the  autumn,  he  followed 
the  good  old  usage  of  catechising  the  children,  after  the 
second  lesson  in  the  evening  service.  His  method  was  to 
ask  a  few  questions  in  succession,  and  only  from  those  who 
he  knew  were  able  to  answer  them ;  and  after  each  answer 
he  entered  into  a  brief  exposition  suited  to  their  capacity. 
His  manner  was  so  benevolent,  and  he  had  made  himself 
so  familiar  in  his  visits,  which  were  at  once  pastoral  and 
friendly,  that  no  child  felt  alarmed  at  being  singled  out; 
they  regarded  it  as  a  mark  of  distinction,  and  the  parents 
were  proud  of  seeing  them  thus  distinguished.  This  prac- 
tice was  discontinued  in  winter ;  because  he  knew  that  to 
keep  a  congregation  in  the  cold  is  not  the  way  either  to 
quicken  or  cherish  devotional  feeling.  Once  a  week  during 
Lent  he  examined  all  the  children,  on  a  week-day ;  the  last 
examination  was  in  Easter  week,  after  which  each  was  sent 
home  happy  with  a  homely  cake,  the  gift  of  a  wealthy 
parishioner,  who  by  this  means  contributed  not  a  little  to 
the  good  effect  of  the  pastor's  diligence. 

The  foundation  was  thus  laid  by  teaching  the  rising  gen- 
eration their  duty  towards  God  and  towards  their  neighbor, 


204  EGBERT    SOUTHEY. 

and  so  far  training  them  in  the  way  that  they  should  go. 
In  the  course  of  a  few  years  every  household,  from  the 
highest  to  the  lowest,  (the  degrees  were  neither  great 
nor  many,)  had  learned  to  look  upon  him  as  their  friend. 
There  was  only  one  in  the  parish  whose  members  were 
upon  a  parity  with  him  in  manners,  none  in  literary  cul- 
ture ;  but  in  good-will,  and  in  human  sympathy,  he  was 
upon  a  level  with  them  all.  Never  interfering  in  the  con- 
cerns of  any  family,  unless  his  interference  was  solicited,  he 
was  consulted  upon  all  occasions  of  trouble  or  importance. 
Incipient  disputes,  which  would  otherwise  have  afforded 
grist  for  the  lawyer's  mill,  were  adjusted  by  his  mediation ; 
and  anxious  parents,  when  they  had  cause  to  apprehend 
that  their  children  were  going  wrong,  knew  no  better 
course  than  to  communicate  their  fears  to  him,  and  re- 
quest that  he  would  administer  some  timely  admonition. 
Whenever  he  was  thus  called  on,  or  had  of  himself  per- 
ceived that  reproof  or  warning  was  required,  it  was  given 
in  private,  or  only  in  presence  of  the  parents,  and  always 
with  a  gentleness  which  none  but  an  obdurate  disposition 
could  resist.  His  influence  over  the  younger  part  of  his 
flock  was  the  greater  because  he  was  no  enemy  to  any  in- 
nocent sports,  but,  on  the  contrary,  was  pleased  to  see  them 
dance  round  the  May-pole,  encouraged  them  to  dress  their 
doors  with  oaken  boughs  on  the  day  of  King  Charles's 
happy  restoration,  and  to  wear  an  oaken  garland  in  the 
hat,  or  an  oak-apple  on  its  sprig  in  the  button-hole;  went 
to  see  their  bonfire  on  the  5th  of  November,  and  enter- 
tained the  morris-dancers  when  they  called  upon  him  in 
their  Christmas  rounds. 

Mr.  Bacon  was  in  his  parish  what  a  moralizing  old  poet 
wished  himself  to  be,  in  these  pleasing  stanzas :  — 

I  would  I  were  an  excellent  divine. 

That  had  the  Bible  at  my  fingers'  ends, 


A   LOVE   STOEY.  205 

That  men  might  hear  out  of  this  mouth  of  mine 

How  God  doth  make  his  enemies  his  friends ; 
Rather  than  with  a  thundering  and  long  prayer 
Be  led  into  presumption,  or  despair. 

This  would  I  be,  and  would  none  other  be 

But  a  religious  servant  of  my  God: 
And  know  there  is  none  other  God  but  He 

And  willingly  to  suffer  Mercy's  rod, 
Joy  in  his  grace  and  live  but  in  his  love, 
And  seek  my  bliss  but  in  the  world  above. 

And  I  would  frame  a  kind  of  faithful  prayer 

For  all  estates  within  the  state  of  grace  j 
That  careful  love  might  never  know  despair, 

Nor  servile  fear  might  faithful  love  deface ; 
And  this  would  I  both  day  and  night  devise 
To  make  my  humble  spirits  exercise. 

And  I  would  read  the  rules  of  sacred  life, 

Persuade  the  troubled  soul  to  patience, 
The  husband  care,  and  comfort  to  the  wife, 

To  child  and  servant  due  obedience, 
Faith  to  the  friend  and  to  the  neighbor  peace, 
That  love  might  live,  and  quarrels  all  might  cease ; 

Pray  for  the  health  of  all  that  are  diseased, 

Confession  unto  all  that  are  convicted, 
And  patience  unto  all  that  are  displeased, 

And  comfort  unto  all  that  are  afflicted, 
And  mercy  unto  all  that  have  offended, 
And  grace  to  all,  that  all  may  be  amended.* 

*  N.  B.,  supposed  to  be  Nicholas  Breton. 


206  ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 

CHAPTER    XI. 

8OME  ACCOUNT  OF  A  RETIRED  TOBACCONIST  AND  HIS  FAMILY. 

Non  fumum  ex  fulgore,  sed  ex  fumo  dare  lucem. 

HORACE. 

IN  all  Mr.  Bacon's  views  he  was  fortunate  enough  to 
have  the  hearty  concurrence  of  the  wealthiest  person  in  the 
parish.  This  was  a  good  man,  Allison  by  name,  who,  hav- 
ing realized  a  respectable  fortune  in  the  metropolis  as  a 
tobacconist,  and  put  out  his  sons  in  life  according  to  their 
respective  inclinations,  had  retired  from  business  at  the  age 
of  threescore,  and  established  himself  with  an  unmarried 
daughter,  and  a  maiden  sister  some  ten  years  younger  than 
himself,  in  his  native  village,  that  he  might  there,  when  his 
hour  should  come,  be  gathered  to  his  fathers. 

"  The  providence  of  God,"  says  South,  "  has  so  ordered 
the  course  of  things,  that  there  is  no  action,  the  usefulness 
of  which  has  made  it  the  matter  of  duty  and  of  a  profession, 
but  a  man  may  bear  the  continual  pursuit  of  it,  without 
loathing  or  satiety.  The  same  shop  and  trade  that  employs 
a  man  in  his  youth,  employs  him  also  in  his  age.  Every 
morning  he  rises  fresh  to  his  hammer  and  his  anvil :  custom 
has  naturalized  his  labor  to  him ;  his  shop  is  his  element, 
and  he  cannot,  with  any  enjoyment  of  himself,  live  out  of 
it."  The  great  preacher  contrasts  this  with  the  wearisome- 
ness  of  an  idle  life,  and  the  misery  of  a  continual  round  of 
what  the  world  calls  pleasure.  "  But  now,"  says  he,  "  if 
God  has  interwoven  such  a  contentment  with  the  works 
of  our  ordinary  calling,  how  much  superior  and  more  re- 
fined must  that  be  that  arises  from  the  survey  of  a  pious 
and  well-governed  life  ?  " 

This  passage  bears  upon  Mr.  Allison's  case,  partly  in  the 
consolatory  fact  which  it  states,  and  wholly  in  the  applica- 


A  LOVE  STORY.  207 

tion  which  South  has  made  of  it.  At  the  age  of  fourteen 
he  had  been  apprenticed  to  an  uncle  in  Bishop?gate  Street 
Within;  and  twenty  years 'after,  on  that  uncle's  death,  had 
succeeded  to  his  old  and  well-established  business.  But 
though  he  had  lived  there  prosperously  and  happily  six  and 
twenty  years  longer,  he  had  contracted  no  such  love  for  it 
as  to  overcome  the  recollections  of  his  childhood.  Grateful 
as  the  smell  of  snuff  and  tobacco  had  become  to  him,  he 
still  remembered  that  cowslips  and  violets  were  sweeter ; 
and  that  the  breath  of  a  May  morning  was  more  exhila- 
rating than  the  air  of  his  own  shop,  impregnated  as  it  was 
with  the  odor  of  the  best  Virginia.  So  having  buried  his 
wife,  who  was  a  Londoner,  and  made  over  the  business  to 
his  eldest  son,  he  returned  to  his  native  place,  with  the 
intention  of  dying  there ;  but  he  was  in  sound  health  of 
body  and  mind,  and  his  green  old  age  seemed  to  promise, 
—  as  far  as  anything  can  promise,  —  length  of  days. 

Of  his  two  other  sons,  one  had  chosen  to  be  a  clergyman, 
and  approved  his  choice  both  by  his  parts  and  diligence; 
for  he  had  gorie  off  from  Merchant-Tailors'  School  to  St. 
John's,  Oxford,  and  was  then  a  fellow  of  that  college.  The 
other  was  a  mate  in  the  Merchants'  service,  and  would  soon 
have  the  command  of  a  ship  in  it.  The  desire  of  seeing 
the  world  led  him  to  this  way  of  life ;  and  that  desire  had 
been  unintentionally  implanted  by  his  father,  who,  in  making 
himself  acquainted  with  everything  relating  to  the  herb  out 
of  which  his  own  fortune  was  raised,  had  become  fond  of 
reading  voyages  and  travels.  His  conversation  induced  the 
lad  to  read  these  books,  and  the  books  confirmed  the  incli- 
nation which  had  already  been  excited ;  and,  as  the  boy  was 
of  an  adventurous  temper,  he  thought  it  best  to  let  him 
follow  the  pursuit  on  which  his  mind  was  bent. 

The  change  to  a  Yorkshire  village  was  not  too  great  for 
Mr.  Allison,  even  after  residing  nearly  half  a  century  in 
Bishopsgate  Street  Within.  The  change  in  his  own  house- 
hold, indeed,  rendered  it  expedient  for  him  to  begin,  in  this 


208  ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 

sense,  a  new  life.  He  had  lost  his  mate ;  the  young  birds 
were  full-fledged  and  had  taken  flight ;  and  it  was  time  that 
he  should  look  out  a  retreat  for  himself  and  the  single  nest- 
ling that  remained  under  his  wing,  now  that  his  son  and 
successor  had  brought  home  a  wife.  The  marriage  had 
been  altogether  with  his  approbation ;  but  it  altered  his 
position  in  the  house ;  and  in  a  still  greater  degree  his 
sister's  ;  moreover,  the  nest  would  soon  be  wanted  for  an- 
other brood.  Circumstances  thus  compelled  him  to  put  in 
effect  what  had  been  the  dream  of  his  youth,  and  the  still 
remote  intention  of  his  middle  age. 

Miss  Allison,  like  her  brother,  regarded  this  removal  as  a 
great  and  serious  change,  preparatory  to  the  only  greater 
one  in  this  world  that  now  remained  for  both  ;  but,  like 
him,  she  regarded  it  rather  seriously  than  sadly,  or  sadly 
only  in  the  old  sober  meaning  of  the  word ;  and  there  was 
a  soft,  sweet,  evening  sunshine  in  their  prospect,  which  both 
partook,  because  both  had  retained  a  deep  affection  for  the 
scenes  of  their  childhood.  To  Betsey,  her  niece,  nothing 
could  be  more  delightful  than  the  expectation  of  such  a  re- 
moval. She,  who  was  then  only  entering  her  teens,  had 
nothing  to  regret  in  leaving  London ;  and  the  place  to 
which  she  was  going  was  the  very  spot  which,  of  all  others 
in  this  wide  world,  from  the  time  in  which  she  was  con- 
scious of  forming  a  wish,  she  had  wished  most  to  see.  Her 
brother,  the  sailor,  was  not  more  taken  with  the  story  of 
Pocahontas  and  Captain  Smith,  or  Dampier's  Voyages,  than 
she  was  with  her  aunt's  details  of  the  farm  and  the  dairy  at 
Thaxted  Grange,  the  May-games  and  the  Christmas  gam- 
bols, the  days  that  were  gone,  and  the  elders  who  were 
departed.  To  one  born  and  bred  in  the  heart  of  London, 
who  had  scarcely  ever  seen  a  flock  of  sheep,  except  when 
they  were  driven  through  the  streets  to  or  from  Smithfield, 
no  fairy  tale  could  present  more  for  the  imagination  than  a 
description  of  green  fields  and  rural  life.  The  charm  of 
truth  heightened  it,  and  the  stronger  charm  of  natural 


A  LOVE    STORY.  209 

piety;  for  the  personages  of  the  tale  were  her  near  kin, 
whose  names  she  had  learned  to  love,  and  whose  living 
memory  she  revered,  but  whose  countenances  she  never 
could  behold  till  she  should  be  welcomed  by  them  in  the 
everlasting  mansions  of  the  righteous. 

None  of  the  party  were  disappointed  when  they  had  es- 
tablished themselves  at  the  Grange.  Mr.  Allison  found  full 
occupation  at  first  in  improving  the  house,  and  afterwards 
in  his  fields  and  garden.  Mr.  Bacon  was  just  such  a  clergy- 
man as  he  would  have  chosen  for  his  parish  priest,  if  it  had 
been  in  his  power  to  choose,  only  he  would  have  had  him 
provided  with  a  better  benefice.  The  single  thing  on  which 
there  was  a  want  of  agreement  between  them  was,  that 
the  Vicar  neither  smoked  nor  took  snuff;  he  was  not  the 
worst  company  on  this  account,  for  he  had  no  dislike  to 
the  fragrance  of  a  pipe ;  but  his  neighbor  lost  the  pleasure 
which  he  would  have  had  in  supplying  him  with  the  best 
Pig-tail,  and  with  Strasburg  or  Rappee.  Miss  Allison  fell 
into  the  habits  of  her  new  station  the  more  easily,  because 
they  were  those  which  she  had  witnessed  in  her  early 
youth ;  she  distilled  waters,  dried  herbs,  and  prepared  con- 
serves, —  which  were  at  the  service  of  all  who  needed  them 
in  sickness.  Betsey  attached  herself  at  first  sight  to  Deborah, 
who  was  about  five  years  elder,  and  soon  became  to  her  as 
a  sister.  The  aunt  rejoiced  in  finding  so  suitable  a  friend 
and  companion  for  her  niece ;  and  as  this  connection  was  a 
pleasure  and  an  advantage  to  the  Allisons,  so  was  it  of  the 
greatest  benefit  to  Deborah. 

What  of  her  ensues 

I  list  not  prophesy,  but  let  Time's  news 
Be  known,  when  't  is  brought  forth.     Of  this  allow 
If  ever  you  have  spent  time  worse  ere  now  ; 
If  never  yet,  the  Author  then  doth  say, 
He  wishes  earnestly  you  never  may.* 

*  Shakespeare. 


210  ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 

CHAPTER    XII. 

MOKE    CONCERNING    THE    AFORESAID    TOBACCONIST. 

I  donbt  nothing  at  all  but  that  you  shall  like  the  man  every  day  better 
than  other  ;  for  verily  I  think  he  lacketh  not  of  those  qualities  which 
should  become  any  honest  man  to  have,  over  and  besides  the  gift  of 
nature  wherewith  God  hath  above  the  common  rate  endued  him. 

ARCHBISHOP  CKANMER. 

MR.  ALLISON  was  as  quiet  a  subject  as  Peter  Hopkins, 
but  he  was  not  like  him  a  political  quietist  from  indiffer- 
ence, for  he  had  a  warm  sense  of  loyalty,  and  a  well-rooted 
attachment  to  the  constitution  of  his  country  in  church  and 
state.  His  ancestors  had  suffered  in  the  Great  Rebellion, 
and  much  the  greater  part  of  their  never  large  estates  had 
been  alienated  to  raise  the  fines  imposed  upon  them  as  de- 
linquents. The  uncle,  whom  he  succeeded  in  Bishopsgate 
Street,  had,  in  his  early  apprenticeship,  assisted  at  burning 
the  Rump,  and  in  maturer  years  had  joined  as  heartily  in 
the  rejoicings  when  the  Seven  Bishops  were  released  from 
the  Tower:  he  subscribed  to  Walker's  "Account  "of  the 
Sufferings  of  the  Clergy,"  and  had  heard  sermons  preached 
by  the  famous  Dr.  Scott  (which  were  afterwards  incorpo- 
rated in  his  great  work  upon  the  Christian  Life)  iu  the 
church  of  St.  Peter-le-Poor  (oddly  so  called,  seeing  that 
there  are  few  districts  within  the  City  of  London  so  rich, 
insomuch  that  the  last  historian  of  the  metropolis  believed 
the  parish  to  have  scarcely  a  poor  family  in  it),  —  and  in 
All-hallows,  Lombard  Street,  where,  during  the  reign  of 
the  Godly,  the  puritanical  vestry  passed  a  resolution,  that 
if  any  persons  should  come  to  the  church  "  on  the  day 
called  Christ's  birthday,"  they  should  be  compelled  to 
leave  it. 

In  these  principles  Mr.  Allison  had  grown  up ;  and  with- 
out any  profession  of  extra  religion,  or  ever  wearing  a 


A   LOVE  STORY.  211 

sanctified  face,  he  had  in  the  evening  of  his  life  attained 
"  the  end  of  the  commandment,  which  is  charity,  proceeding 
from  a  pure  heart,  and  a  good  conscience,  and  a  faith  un- 
feigned." London  in  his  days  was  a  better  school  for  young 
men  in  trade  than  it  ever  was  before,  or  has  been  since. 
The  civic  power  had  quietly  and  imperceptibly  put  an  end 
to  that  club-law  which  once  made  the  apprentices  a  tur- 
bulent and  formidable  body,  at  any  moment  armed  as  well 
as  ready  for  a  riot ;  and  masters  exercised  a  sort  of  parental 
control  over  the  youth  intrusted  to  them,  which  in  later 
times  it  may  be  feared  has  not  been  so  conscientiously  ex- 
erted, because  it  is  not  likely  to  be  so  patiently  endured. 
Trade  itself  had  not  then  been  corrupted  by  that  ruinous 
spirit  of  competition,  which,  more  than  any  other  of  the 
evils  now  pressing  upon  us,  deserves  to  be  called  the  curse 
of  England  in  the  present  age.  At  all  times  men  have 
been  to  be  found,  who  engaged  in  hazardous  speculations, 
gamester  like,  according  to  their  opportunities,  or  who,  mis- 
taking the  means  for  the  end,  devoted  themselves  with 
miserable  fidelity  to  the  service  of  Mammon.  But  "  Live 
and  let  live,"  had  not  yet  become  a  maxim  of  obsolete  mo- 
rality. We  had  our  monarchy,  or  hierarchy,  and  our  aristoc- 
racy, —  God  be  praised  for  the  benefits  which  have  been 
derived  from  all  three,  and  God  in  his  mercy  continue  them 
to  us  !  but  we  had  no  plutarchy,  no  millionnaires,  no  great 
capitalists  to  break  down  the  honest  and  industrious  trader 
with  the  weight  of  their  overbearing  and  overwhelming 
wealth.  They  who  had  enriched  themselves  in  the  course 
of  regular  and  honorable  commerce  withdrew  from  business, 
and  left  the  field  to  others.  Feudal  tyranny  had  passed 
away,  and  moneyed  tyranny  had  not  yet  arisen  in  its  stead, 
—  a  tyranny  baser  in  its  origin,  not  more  merciful  in  its 
operations,  and  with  less  in  its  appendages  to  redeem  it. 

Trade,  in  Mr.  Allison's  days,  was  a  school  of  thrift  and 
probity,  as  much  as  of  profit  and  loss ;  such  his  shop  had 


212  ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 

been  when  he  succeeded  to  it  upon  his  uncle's  decease,  and 
such  it  continued  to  be  when  he  transmitted  it  to  his  son. 
Old  Mr.  Strahan  the  printer  (the  founder  of  his  typarchical 
dynasty)  said  to  Dr.  Johnson,  that  "  there  are  few  ways  in 
which  a  man  can  be  more  innocently  employed  than  in  get- 
ting money  " ;  and  he  added,  that  "  the  more  one  thinks  of 
this  the  juster  it  will  appear."  Johnson  agreed  with  him  ; 
and  though  it  was  a  money-maker's  observation,  and  though 
the  more  it  is  considered  now,  the  more  fallacious  it  will  be 
found,  the  general  system  of  trade  might  have  justified  it 
at  that  time.  The  entrance  of  an  exciseman  never  occa- 
sioned any  alarm  or  apprehension  at  No.  118  Bishopsgate 
Street  Within,  nor  any  uncomfortable  feeling,  unless  the 
officer  happened  to  be  one  who,  by  giving  unnecessary 
trouble,  and  by  gratuitous  incivility  in  the  exercise  of 
authority,  made  an  equitable  law  odious  in  its  execution. 
They  never  there  mixed  weeds  with  their  tobacco,  nor 
adulterated  it  in  any  worse  way;  and  their  snuff  was  never 
rendered  more  pungent  by  stirring  into  it  a  certain  propor- 
tion of  pounded  glass.  The  duties  were  honestly  paid,  with 
a  clear  perception  that  the  impost  fell  lightly  upon  all  whom 
it  affected,  and  affected  those  only  who  chose  to  indulge 
themselves  in  a  pleasure  which  was  still  cheap,  and  which, 
without  any  injurious  privation,  they  might  forego.  Nay, 
when  our  good  man  expatiated  upon  the  uses  of  tobacco, 
which  Mr.  Bacon  demurred  at,  and  the  Doctor  sometimes 
playfully  disputed,  he  ventured  an  opinion,  that  among  the 
final  causes  for  which  so  excellent  an  herb  had  been  cre- 
ated, the  facilities  afforded  by  it  towards  raising  the  revenue 
in  a  well-governed  country  like  our  own,  might  be  one. 

There  was  a  strong  family  likeness  between  him  and  his 
sister,  both  in  countenance  and  disposition.  Elizabeth  Alli- 
son was  a  person  for  whom  the  best  and  wisest  man  might 
have  thanked  Providence  if  she  had  been  allotted  to  him  for 
helpmate.  But  though  she  had,  in  Shakespeare's  language, 


A   LOVE   STORY.  213 

"  withered  on  the  virgin  thorn,"  hers  had  not  been  a  life  of 
single  blessedness  :  she  had  been  a  blessing  first  to  her  par- 
ents ;  then  to  her  brother  and  her  brother's  family,  where  she 
relieved  an  amiable  but  sickly  sister-in-law  from  those  do- 
mestic offices  which  require  activity  and  forethought ;  lastly, 
after  the  dispersion  of  his  sons,  the  transfer  of  the  business 
to  the  eldest,  and  the  breaking-up  of  his  old  establishment, 
to  the  widower  and  his  daughter,  the  only  child  who  cleaved 
to  him,  —  not  like  Ruth  to  Naomi,  by  a  meritorious  act  of 
duty,  for  in  her  case  it  was  in  the  ordinary  course  of  things, 
without  either  sacrifice  or  choice ;  but  the  effect  in  endear- 
ing her  to  him  was  the  same. 

In  advanced  stages  of  society,  and  nowhere  more  than  in 
England  at  this  time,  the  tendency  of  all  things  is  to  weaken 
the  relations  between  parent  and  child,  and  frequently  to  de- 
stroy them,  reducing  human  nature  in  this  respect  nearer  to 
the  level  of  animal  life.  Perhaps  the  greater  number  of 
male  children  who  are  "  born  into  the  world,"  in  our  part 
of  it,  are  put  out  at  as  early  an  age,  proportionately,  as  the 
young  bird  is  driven  from  its  nest,  or  the  young  beast  turned 
off  by  its  dam  as  being  capable  of  feeding  and  protecting 
itself;  and  in  many  instances  they  are  as  totally  lost  to  the 
parent,  though  not  in  like  manner  forgotten.  Mr.  Allison 
never  saw  all  his  children  together  after  his  removal  from 
London.  The  only  time  when  his  three  sons  met  at  the 
Grange  was  when  they  came  there  to  attend  their  father's 
funeral  j  nor  would  they  then  have  been  assembled,  if  the 
Captain's  ship  had  not  happened  to  have  recently  arrived  in 
port. 

This  is  a  state  of  things  more  favorable  to  the  wealth 
than  to  the  happiness  of  nations.  It  was  a  natural  and  pious 
custom  in  patriarchal  times  that  the  dead  should  be  gath- 
ered unto  their  people.  "  Bury  me,"  said  Jacob,  when  he 
gave  his  dying  charge  to  his  sons,  — "  bury  me  with  my 
fathers  in  the  cave  that  is  in  the  field  of  Machpelah,  which 


214  ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 

is  before  Mamre  in  the  land  of  Canaan,  which  Abraham 
bought  with  the  field  of  Ephron  the  Hittite,  for  a  posses- 
sion of  a  burying-place.  There  they  buried  Abraham  and 
Sarah  his  wife ;  there  they  buried  Isaac  and  Rebecca  his 
wife ;  and  there  I  buried  Leah."  Had  such  a  passage 
occurred  in  Homer,  or  in  Dante,  all  critics  would  have  con- 
curred in  admiring  the  truth  and  beauty  of  the  sentiment. 
He  had  buried  his  beloved  Rachel  by  the  way  where  she 
died ;  but,  although  he  remembered  this  at  his  death,  the 
orders  which  he  gave  were,  that  his  own  remains  should  be 
laid  in  the  sepulchre  of  his  fathers.  The  same  feeling  pre- 
vails among  many,  or  most  of  those  savage  tribes  who  are 
not  utterly  degraded.  With  them  the  tree  is  not  left  to  lie 
where  it  falls.  The  body  of  one  who  dies  on  an  expedition 
is  interred  on  the  spot,  if  distance  or  other  circumstances 
render  it  inconvenient  to  transport  the  corpse ;  but,  how- 
ever long  the  journey,  it  is  considered  as  a  sacred  duty  that 
the  bones  should  at  some  time  or  other  be  brought  home. 
In  Scotland,  where  the  common  rites  of  sepulture  are 
performed  with  less  decency  than  in  any  other  Christian 
country,  the  care  with  which  family  burial-grounds  in  the 
remoter  parts  are  preserved,  may  be  referred  as  much  to 
natural  feeling  as  to  hereditary  pride. 

But  as  indigenous  flowers  are  eradicated  by  the  spade  and 
plough,  so  this  feeling  is  destroyed  in  the  stirring  and  bust- 
ling intercourse  of  commercial  life.  No  room  is  left  for  it ; 
as  little  of  it  at  this  time  remains  in  wide  America  as  in 
thickly-peopled  England.  That  to  which  soldiers  and  sail- 
ors are  reconciled  by  the  spirit  of  their  profession,  and  the 
chances  of  war  and  of  the  seas,  the  love  of  adventure  and 
the  desire  of  advancement  cause  others  to  regard  with  the 
same  indifference  ;  and  these  motives  are  so  prevalent,  that 
the  dispersion  of  families  and  the  consequent  disruption  of 
natural  ties,  if  not  occasioned  by  necessity,  would  now 
in  most  instances  be  the  effect  of  choice.  Even  those 


A   LOVE   STORY.  215 

to  whom  it  is  an  inevitable  evil,  and  who  feel  it  deeply  as 
such,  look  upon  it  as  something  in  the  appointed  course  of 
things,  as  much  as  infirmity  and  age  and  death. 

It  is  well  for  us  that  in  early  life  we  never  think  of  the 
vicissitudes  which  lie  before  us  ;  or  look  to  them  only  with 
pleasurable  anticipations  as  they  approach. 

Youth 

Knows  naught  of  changes  :  Age  hath  traced  them  oft, 
Expects  and  can  interpret  them.* 

The  thought  of  them,  when  it  comes  across  us  in  middle 
life,  brings  with  it  only  a  transient  sadness,  like  the  shadow 
of  a  passing  cloud.  We  turn  our  eyes  from  them  while 
they  are  in  prospect ;  but  when  they  are  in  retrospect 
many  a  longing,  lingering  look  is  cast  behind.  So  long  as 
Mr.  Allison  was  in  business,  he  looked  to  Thaxted  Grange 
as  the  place  where  he  hoped  one  day  to  enjoy  the  blessings 
of  retirement,  —  that  otium  cum  dignitate,  which  in  a  certain 
sense  the  prudent  citizen  is  more  likely  to  attain  than  the 
successful  statesman.  It  was  the  pleasure  of  recollection 
that  gave  this  hope  its  zest  and  its  strength.  But  after  the 
object  which  during  so  many  years  he  had  held  in  view  had 
been  obtained,  his  day-dreams,  if  he  had  allowed  them  to 
take  their  course,  would  have  recurred  more  frequently  to 
Bishopsgate  Street  than  they  had  ever  wandered  from 
thence  to  the  scenes  of  his  boyhood.  They  recurred 
thither  oftener  than  he  wished,  although  few  men  have 
been  more  masters  of  themselves ;  and  then  the  remem- 
brance of  his  wife,  whom  he  had  lost  by  a  lingering  disease 
in  middle  age ;  and  of  the  children,  those  who  had  died 
during  their  childhood,  and  those  who  in  reality  were  almost 
as  much  lost  to  him  in  the  ways  of  the  world,  made  him 
alway  turn  for  comfort  to  the  prospect  of  that  better  state 
of  existence  in  which  they  should  once  more  all  be  gathered 

*  Isaac  Comnenus. 


216  ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 

together,  and  where  there  would  be  neither  change  nor  part- 
ing. His  thoughts  often  fell  into  this  train,  when  on  sum- 
mer evenings  he  was  taking  a  solitary  pipe  in  his  arbor, 
with  the  church  in  sight,  and  the  churchyard  wherein,  at  no 
distant  time,  he  was  to  be  laid  in  his  last  abode.  Such 
musings  induced  a  sense  of  sober  piety,  —  of  thankfulness 
for  former  blessings,  contentment  with  the  present,  and 
humble  yet  sure  and  certain  hope  for  futurity,  which  might 
vainly  have  been  sought  at  prayer-meetings  or  evening  lec- 
tures, where  indeed  little  good  can  ever  be  obtained  withr 
out  some  deleterious  admixture,  or  alloy  of  baser  feelings. 

The  happiness  which  he  had  found  in  retirement  was  of 
a  different  kind  from  what  he  had  contemplated ;  for  the 
shades  of  evening  were  gathering  when  he  reached  the 
place  of  his  long  wished  for  rest,  and  the  picture  of  it  which 
had  imprinted  itself  on  his  imagination  was  a  morning 
view.  But  he  had  been  prepared  for  this  by  that  slow 
change,  of  which  we  are  not  aware  during  its  progress  till 
we  see  it  reflected  in  others,  and  are  thus  made  conscious 
of  it  in  ourselves ;  and  he  found  a  satisfaction  in  the  station 
which  he  occupied  there,  too  worthy  in  its  nature  to  be 
called  pride,  and  which  had  not  entered  into  his  anticipa- 
tions. It  is  said  to  have  been  a  saying  of  George  the 
Third,  that  the  happiest  condition  in  which  an  English- 
man could  be  placed,  was  just  below  that  wherein  it  would 
have  been  necessary  for  him  to  act  as  a  Justice  of  the  Peace, 
and  above  that  which  would  have  rendered  him  liable  to 
parochial  duties.  This  was  just  Mr.  Allison's  position ; 
there  was  nothing  which  brought  him  into  rivalry  or  com- 
petition with  the  surrounding  Squirarchy,  and  the  yeomen 
and  peasantry  respected  him  for  his  own  character,  as  well 
as  for  his  name's  sake.  He  gave  employment  to  more  per- 
sons than  when  he  was  engaged  in  trade,  and  his  indirect 
influence  over  them  was  greater ;  that  of  his  sister  was  still 
more.  The  elders  of  the  village  remembered  her  in  her 


A   LOVE  STORY.  217 

youth,  and  loved  her  for  what  she  then  had  been,  as  well  as 
for  what  she  now  was ;  the  young  looked  up  to  her  as  the 
Lady  Bountiful,  to  whom  no  one  that  needed  advice  or 
assistance  ever  applied  in  vain.  She  it  was  who  provided 
those  much  approved  plum-cakes,  not  the  less  savory  for 
being  both  homely  and  wholesome,  the  thought  of  which 
induced  the  children  to  look  on  to  their  Lent  examination 
with  hope,  and  prepare  for  it  with  alacrity.  Those  offices  in 
a  parish  which  are  the  province  of  the  Clergyman's  wife, 
when  he  has  made  choice  of  one  who  knows  her  duty,  and 
has  both  will  and  ability  to  discharge  it,  Miss  Allison  per- 
formed ;  and  she  rendered  Mr.  Bacon  the  farther,  and  to  him 
individually  the  greater,  service  of  imparting  to  his  daughter 
those  instructions  which  she  had  no  mother  to  impart. 
Deborah  could  not  have  had  a  better  teacher  ;  but  as  the 
present  chapter  has  extended  to  a  sufficient  length, 

Diremo  il  resto  in  qud  che  vien  dipoi, 
Per  non  venire  a  noja  a  me  e  vol.* 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

A   FEW    PARTICULARS    CONCERNING    NO.   113   BISHOPSGATE    STREET 
WITHIN  J     AND    OF    THE    FAMILY    AT    THAXTED    GRANGE. 

Opinion  is  the  rate  of  things, 

From  hence  our  peace  doth  flow; 
I  have  a  better  fate  than  kings, 

Because  I  think  it  so. 

KATHARINE  PHILIPS. 

THE  house  wherein  Mr.  Allison  realized  by  fair  dealing 
and  frugality  the  modest  fortune  which  enabled  him  to  re- 
purchase the  homestead  of  his  fathers,  is  still  a  Tobacco- 
nist's, and  has  continued  to  be  so  from  "  the  palmy  days " 

*  Orlando  Innamorato. 


218  ROBERT   SOUTHEY. 

of  that  trade,  when  King  James  vainly  endeavored,  by  the 
expression  of  his  royal  dislike,  to  discountenance  the  newly- 
imported  practice  of  smoking ;  and  Joshua  Sylvester  thun- 
dered from  Mount  Helicon  a  Volley  of  Holy  Shot,  thinking 
that  thereby  "  Tobacco  "  should  be  "  battered,  and  the  Pipes 
shattered,  about  their  ears  that  idly  idolize  so  base  and  bar- 
barous a  weed,  or  at  least-wise  overlove  so  loathsome  van- 
ity." *  For  he  said,  — 

If  there  be  any  Herb  in  any  place 

Most  opposite  to  God's  good  Herb  of  Grace, 

JT  is  doubtless  this  ;  and  this  doth  plainly  prove  it, 

That  for  the  most,  most  graceless  men  do  love  it. 

Yet  it  was  not  long  before  the  dead  and  unsavory  odor  of 
that  weed,  to  which  a  Parisian  was  made  to  say  that  "  sea- 
coal  smoke  seemed  a  very  Portugal  perfume,"  prevailed  as 
much  in  the  raiment  of  the  more  coarsely  clad  part  of  the 
community,  as  the  scent  of  lavender  among  those  who  were 
clothed  in  fine  linen,  and  fared  sumptuously  every  day :  and 
it  had  grown  so  much  in  fashion,  that  it  was  said  children 
"  began  to  play  with  broken  pipes,  instead  of  corals,  to  make 
way  for  their  teeth." 

Louis  XIV.  endeavored  just  as  ineffectually  to  discourage 
the  use  of  snuff-taking.  His  valets  de  chambre  were  obliged 
to  renounce  it  when  they  were  appointed  to  their  office ; 
and  the  Duke  of  Harcourt  was  supposed  to  have  died  of 
apoplexy  in  consequence  of  having,  to  please  his  Majesty, 
left  off  at  once  a  habit  which  he  had  carried  to  excess. 

I  know  not  through  what  intermediate  hands  the  business 
at  No.  113  has  passed,  since  the  name  of  Allison  was  with- 
drawn from  the  firm ;  nor  whether  Mr.  Evans,  by  whom  it 
is  now  carried  on  there,  is  in  any  way  related  by  descent 
with  that  family.  Matters  of  no  greater  importance  to  most 

*  Old  Burton's  was  a  modified  opinion.  See  Anatomic  of  Melan- 
choly, Part  ii.  §  2,  mem.  2,  subs.  2. 


A  LOVE  STORY.  219 

men  have  been  made  the  subject  of  much  antiquarian  in- 
vestigation ;  and  they  who  busy  themselves  in  such  inves- 
tigations must  not  be  said  to  be  ill-employed,  for  they  find 
harmless  amusement  in  the  pursuit,  and  sometimes  put  up  a 
chance  truth  of  which  others,  soon  or  late,  discover  the  ap- 
plication. The  house  has  at  this  time  a  more  antiquated 
appearance  than  any  other  in  that  part  of  the  street,  though 
it  was  modernized  some  forty  or  fifty  years  after  Mr.  Ba- 
con's friend  left  it.  The  first  floor  then  projected  several 
feet  farther  over  the  street  than  at  present,  and  the  second 
several  feet  farther  over  the  first ;  and  the  windows,  which 
still  extend  the  whole  breadth  of  the  front,  were  then  com- 
posed of  small  casement  panes.  But  in  the  progress  of 
those  improvements  which  are  now  carrying  on  in  the  city 
with  as  much  spirit  as  at  the  western  end  of  the  metropolis, 
and  which  have  almost  reached  Mr.  Evans's  door,  it  cannot 
be  long  before  the  house  will  be  either  wholly  removed,  or 
so  altered  as  no  longer  to  be  recognized. 

The  present  race  of  Londoners  little  know  what  the 
appearance  of  the  city  was  a  century  ago  ;  —  their  own  city, 
I  was  about  to  have  said  ;  but  it  was  the  city  of  their  great- 
grandfathers, not  theirs,  from  which  the  elder  Allisons  re- 
tired in  the  year  1746.  At  that  time  the  kennels  (as  in 
Paris)  were  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  and  there  were 
no  footpaths ;  spouts  projected  the  rain-water  in  streams, 
against  which  umbrellas,  if  umbrellas  had  been  then  in  use, 
could  have  afforded  no  defence ;  and  large  signs,  such  as  are 
now  only  to  be  seen  at  country  inns,  were  suspended  before 
every  shop,*  from  posts  which  impeded  the  way,  or  from 
iron  supports  strongly  fixed  into  the  front  of  the  house. 
The  swinging  of  one  of  these  broad  signs  in  a  high  wind, 
and  the  weight  of  the  iron  on  which  it  acted,  sometimes 

*  The  counting  of  these  signs  "  from  Temple  Bar,  the  furthest 
Conduit  in  Cheapside,"  &c.,  is  quoted  as  a  remarkable  instance  of 
Fuller's  Memory.  Life,  &c.,  p.  76,  ed.  1662. 


220  EGBERT   SOUTHEY. 

brought  the  wall  down;  and  it  is  recorded  that  one  front- 
fall  of  this  kind  in  Fleet  Street  maimed  several  persons, 
and  killed  "  two  young  ladies,  a  cobbler,  and  the  King's 
jeweller." 

The  sign  at  No.  113  was  an  Indian  Chief  smoking  the 
calumet.  Mr.  Allison  had  found  it  there;  and  when  it 
became  necessary  that  a  new  one  should  be  substituted,  he 
retained  the  same  figure,  —  though,  if  he  had  been  to 
choose,  he  would  have  greatly  preferred  the  head  of  Sir 
Walter  Raleigh,  by  whom,  according  to  the  common  belief, 
he  supposed  tobacco  had  been  introduced  into  this  country. 
The  Water-Poet  imputed  it  to  the  Devil  himself,  and  pub- 
lished 

A  Proclamation, 
Or  Approbation, 
From  the  King  of  Execration 

To  every  Nation, 
For  Tobacco's  propagation. 

Mr.  Allison  used  to  shake  his  head  at  such  libellous  asper- 
sions. Raleigh  was  a  great  favorite  with  him,  and  held, 
indeed,  in  especial  respect,  though  not  as  the  Patron  of  his 
old  trade,  as  St.  Crispin  is  of  the  Gentle  Craft,  yet  as  the 
founder  of  his  fortune.  He  thought  it  proper,  therefore, 
that  he  should  possess  Sir  Walter's  History  of  the  World, 
though  he  had  never  found  inclination,  or  summoned  up 
resolution,  to  undertake  its  perusal. 

Common  sense  has  been  defined  by  Sir  Egerton  Brydges, 
"  to  mean  nothing  more  than  an  uneducated  judgment,  aris- 
ing from  a  plain  and  coarse  understanding  exercised  upon 
common  concerns,  and  rendered  effective  rather  by  experi- 
ence, than  by  any  regular  process  of  the  intellectual  powers. 
If  this,"  he  adds,  "  be  the  proper  meaning  of  that  quality, 
we  cannot  wonder  that  books  are  little  fitted  for  its  culti- 
vation." Except  that  there  was  no  coarseness  in  his  nature, 
this  would  apply  to  Mr  Allison.  He  had  been  bred  up  with 


A   LOVE   STORY.  221 

the  notion,  that  it  behoved  him  to  attend  to  his  business, 
and  that  reading  foamed  to  part  of  it.  Nevertheless  he  had 
acquired  some  liking  for  books,  by  looking  casually  now  and 
then  over  the  leaves  of  those  unfortunate  volumes  with 
which  the  shop  was  continually  supplied  for  its  daily  con- 
sumption. 

Many  a  load  of  criticism, 
Elaborate  products  of  the  midnight  toil 
Of  Belgian  brains,* 

went  there ;  and  many  a  tome  of  old  law,  old  physic,  and 
old  divinity ;  old  history  as  well ;  books  of  which  many 
were  at  all  times  rubbish  ;  some  which,  though  little  better, 
would  now  sell  for  more  shillings  by  the  page  than  they 
then  cost  pence  by  the  pound ;  and  others,  the  real  value 
of  which  is  perhaps  as  little  known  now,  as  it  was  then. 
Such  of  these  as  in  latter  years  caught  his  attention,  he  now 
and  then  rescued  from  the  remorseless  use  to  which  they 
had  been  condemned.  They  made  a  curious  assortment 
with  his  wife's  books  of  devotion  or  amusement  where- 
with she  had  sometimes  beguiled,  and  sometimes  soothed, 
the  weary  hours  of  long  and  frequent  illness.  Among 
the  former  were  Scott's  "  Christian  Life,"  Bishop  Bayly's 
"  Practice  of  Piety,"  Bishop  Taylor's  "  Holy  Living  and 
Dying,"  Drelincourt  on  Death,  with  De  Foe's  lying  story 
of  Mrs.  Veal's  ghost  as  a  puff  preliminary,  and  the  Night 
Thoughts.  Among  the  latter  were  Cassandra,  the  Guard- 
ian and  Spectator,  Mrs.  Rowe's  Letters,  Richardson's  Nov- 
els, and  Pomfret's  Poems. 

Mrs.  Allison  had  been  able  to  do  little  for  her  daughter 
of  that  little,  which,  if  her  state  of  health  and  spirits  had 
permitted,  she  might  have  done ;  this,  therefore,  as  well  as 
the  more  active  duties  of  the  household,  devolved  upon  Eliz- 
abeth, who  was  of  a  better  constitution  in  mind  as  well 

*  Akenside. 


222  ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 

as  body.  Elizabeth,  before  she  went  to  reside  with  her 
brother,  had  acquired  all  the  accomplishments  which  a 
domestic  education  in  the  country  could  in  those  days 
impart.  Her  book  of  receipts,  culinary  and  medical,  might 
have  vied  with  the  "  Queen's  Cabinet  Unlocked."  The 
spelling  indeed  was  such  as  ladies  used  in  the  reign  of 
Queen  Anne,  and  in  the  old  time  before  her,  when  every 
one  spelt  as  she  thought  fit ;  but  it  was  written  in  a  well- 
proportioned  Italian  hand,  with  fine  down-strokes  and  broad 
up-ones,  equally  distinct  and  beautiful.  Her  speech  was 
good  Yorkshire,  that  is  to  say,  good  provincial  English,  not 
the  worse  for  being  provincial,  and  a  little  softened  by  five- 
and-twenty  years'  residence  in  London.  Some  sisters,  who 
in  those  days  kept  a  boarding-school  of  the  first  repute,  in 
one  of  the  midland  counties,  used  to  say,  when  they  spoke 
of  an  old  pupil,  "  her  went  to  school  to  we."  Miss  Allison's 
language  was  not  of  this  kind,  —  it  savored  of  rusticity,  not 
of  ignorance ;  and  where  it  was  peculiar,  as  in  the  metrop- 
olis, it  gave  raciness  to  the  conversation  of  an  agreeable 
woman. 

She  had  been  well  instructed  in  ornamental  work  as  well 
as  ornamental  penmanship.  Unlike  most  fashions,  this  had 
continued  to  be  in  fashion  because  it  continued  to  be  of  use  ; 
though  no  doubt  some  of  the  varieties  which  Taylor,  the 
Water-Poet,  enumerates  in  his  praise  of  the  Needle,  might 
have  been  then  as  little  understood  as  now  :  — 

Tent-work,  Raised-work,  Laid-work,  Prest-work,  Net-work, 

Most  curious  Pearl,  or  rare  Italian  Cut-work, 

Fine  Fern-stitch,  Finny-stitch,  New-stitch  and  Chain-stitch, 

Brave  Bred-stitch,  Fisher-stitch,  Irish-stitch  and  Queen-stitch, 

The  Spanish-stitch,  Rosemary-stitch  and  Maw-stitch, 

The  smarting  Whip-stitch,  Back-stitch  and  the  Cross-stitch. 

All  these  are  good,  and  these  we  must  allow  ; 

And  these  are  everywhere  in  practice  now. 

There  was  a  book  published  in  the  Water-Poet's  days, 


A   LOVE   STORY.  223 

with  the  title  of  "  School  House  for  the  Needle  " ;  it  con- 
sisted of  two  volumes  in  oblong  quarto,  that  form  being 
suited  to  its  plates  "  of  sundry  sorts  of  patterns  and  exam- 
ples " ;  and  it  contained  a  "  Dialogue  in  Verse  between 
Diligence  and  Sloth."  If  Betsey  Allison  had  studied  in 
this  "  School  House,"  she  could  not  have  been  a  greater 
proficient  with  the  needle  than  she  became  under  her 
Aunt's  teaching:  nor  would  she  have  been  more 

versed  in  the  arts 
Of  pies,  puddings,  and  tarts,* 

if  she  had  gone  through  a  course  of  practical  lessons  in  one 
of  the  Pastry  Schools  which  are  common  in  Scotland,  but 
were  tried  without  success  in  London,  about  the  middle  of 
the  last  century.  Deborah  partook  of  these  instructions  at 
her  father's  desire.  In  all  that  related  to  the  delicacies  of 
a  country  table,  she  was  glad  to  be  instructed,  because  it 
enabled  her  to  assist  her  friend ;  but  it  appeared  strange  to 
her  that  Mr.  Bacon  should  wish  her  to  learn  ornamental 
work,  for  which  she  neither  had,  nor  could  forsee  any  use. 
But  if  the  employment  had  been  less  agreeable  than  she 
found  it  in  such  company,  she  would  never  have  disputed, 
nor  questioned  his  will. 

For  so  small  a  household,  a  more  active  or  cheerful 
one  could  nowhere  have  been  found  than  at  the  Grange. 
Ben  Jonson  reckoned  among  the  happinesses  of  Sir  Robert 
Wroth  that  of  being  "  with  unbought  provision  blest."  This 
blessing  Mr.  Allison  enjoyed  in  as  great  a  degree  as  his 
position  in  life  permitted ;  he  neither  killed  his  own  meat 
nor  grew  his  own  corn ;  but  he  had  his  poultry-yard,  his 
garden  and  his  orchard ;  he  baked  his  own  bread,  brewed 
his  own  beer,  and  was  supplied  with  milk,  cream,  and  butter 
from  his  own  dairy.  It  is  a  fact  not  unworthy  of  notice, 
that  the  most  intelligent  farmers  in  the  neighborhood  of 
London  are  persons  who  have  taken  to  farming  as  a  busi- 

*  T.  Warton. 


224  EGBERT    SOUTHEY. 

ness,  because  of  their  strong  inclination  for  rural  employ- 
ments ;  one  of  the  very  best  in  Middlesex,  when  the  Survey 
of  that  County  was  published  by  the  Board  of  Agriculture, 
had  been  a  tailor.  Mr.  Allison  did  not  attempt  to  manage 
the  land  which  he  kept  in  his  own  hands ;  but  he  had  a 
trusty  bailiff,  and  soon  acquired  knowledge  enough  for 
superintending  what  was  done.  When  he  retired  from 
trade  he  gave  over  all  desire  for  gain,  which  indeed  he  had 
never  desired  for  his  own  sake ;  he  sought  now  only  whole- 
some occupation,  and  those  comforts  which  may  be  said  to 
have  a  moral  zest.  They  might  be  called  luxuries,  if  that 
word  could  be  used  in  a  virtuous  sense  without  something  so 
to  qualify  it.  It  is  a  curious  instance  of  the  modification 
which  words  undergo  in  different  countries,  that  luxury  has 
always  a  sinful  acceptation  in  the  southern  languages  of 
Europe,  and  lust  an  innocent  one  in  the  northern ;  the 
harmless  meaning  of  the  latter  word,  we  have  retained  in 
the  verb  to  list. 

Every  one  who  looks  back  upon  the  scenes  of  his  youth, 
has  one  spot  upon  which  the  last  light  of  the  evening  sun- 
shine rests.  The  Grange  was  that  spot  in  Deborah's  ret- 
rospect. 

CHAPTER    XIV. 

A  REMARKABLE  EXAMPLE,  SHOWING  THAT  A  WISE  MAN,  WHEN  HE 
RISES  IN  THE  MORNING,  LITTLE  KNOWS  WHAT  HE  MAY  DO  BE- 
FORE NIGHT. 

Now  I  love, 

And  so  as  in  so  short  a  time  I  may, 
Yet  so  as  time  shall  never  break  that  so, 
And  therefore  so  accept  of  Elinor. 

ROBERT  GREENE. 

ONE  summer  evening  the  Doctor,  on  his  way  back  from  a 
visit  in  that  direction,  stopped,  as  on  such  opportunities  he 
usually  did,  at  Mr.  Bacon's  wicket,  and  looked  in  at  the 


A    LOVE   STORY.  225 

open  casement  to  see  if  his  friends  were  within.  Mr.  Bacon 
was  sitting  there  alone,  with  a  book  open  on  the  table  before 
him ;  and  looking  round  when  he  heard  the  horse  stop, 
"  Come  in,  Doctor,"  said  he,  "  if  you  have  a  few  minutes  to 
spare.  You  were  never  more  welcome." 

The  Doctor  replied,  "  I  hope  nothing  ails  either  Deborah 
or  yourself?  " 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Bacon,  "  God  be  thanked !  but  something 
has  occurred  which  concerns  both." 

When  the  Doctor  entered  the  room,  he  perceived  that  the 
wonted  serenity  of  his  friend's  countenance  was  overcast  by 
a  shade  of  melancholy  thought.  "Nothing,"  said  he,  "I 
hope,  has  happened  to  distress  you  ? " 

"  Only  to  disturb  us,"  was  the  reply.  "  Most  people  would 
probably  think  that  we  ought  to  consider  it  a  piece  of  good 
fortune.  One  who  would  be  thought  a  good  match  for  her, 
has  proposed  to  marry  Deborah." 

"  Indeed  ! "  said  the  Doctor ;  "  and  who  is  he  ?  "  feeling, 
as  he  asked  the  question,  an  unusual  warmth  in  his  face. 

"Joseph  Hebblethwaite,  of  the  Willows.  He  broke  his 
mind  to  me  this  morning,  saying  that  he  thought  it  best  to 
speak  with  me  before  he  made  any  advances  himself  to  the 
young  woman:  indeed  he  had  had  no  opportunity  of  so 
doing,  for  he  had  seen  little  of  her  ;  but  he  had  heard  enough 
of  her  character  to  believe  that  she  would  make  him  a  good 
wife ;  and  this,  he  said,  was  all  he  looked  for,  for  he  was 
well  to  do  in  the  world." 

"And  what  answer  did  you  make  to  this  matter-of-fact 
way  of  proceeding  ?  " 

"  I  told  him  that  I  commended  the  very  proper  course  he 
had  taken,  and  that  I  was  obliged  to  him  for  the  good  opinion 
of  my  daughter  which  he  was  pleased  to  entertain :  that 
marriage  was  an  affair  in  which  I  should  never  attempt  to 
direct  her  inclinations,  being  confident  that  she  would  never 
give  me  cause  to  oppose  them ;  and  that  I  would  talk  with 
10*  o 


226  ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 

her  upon  the  proposal,  and  let  him  know  the  result.  As 
soon  as  I  mentioned  it  to  Deborah,  she  colored  up  to  her 
eyes ;  and  with  an  angry  look,  of  which  I  did  not  think  those 
eyes  had  been  capable,  she  desired  me  to  tell  him  that  he 
had  better  lose  no  time  in  looking  elsewhere,  for  his  thinking 
of  her  was  of  no  use.  '  Do  you  know  any  ill  of  him?'  said 
I.  'No,'  she  replied,  'but  I  never  heard  any  good,  and 
that 's  ill  enough.  And  I  do  not  like  his  looks.' " 

O 

.  "  Well  said,  Deborah !  "  cried  the  Doctor  :  clapping  his 
hands  so  as  to  produce  a  sonorous  token  of  satisfaction. 

" '  Surely,  my  child,'  said  I, '  he  is  not  an  ill-looking  per- 
son ? '  '  Father,'  she  replied,  '  you  know  he  looks  as  if  he 
had  not  one  idea  in  his  head  to  keep  company  with  an- 
other.' " 

"  Well  said,  Deborah ! "  repeated  the  Doctor. 

"  Why,  Doctor,  do  you  know  any  ill  of  him  ? 

"  None.  But,  as  Deborah  says,  I  know  no  good  ;  and  if 
there  had  been  any  good  to  be  known,  it  must  have  come 
within  my  knowledge.  I  cannot  help  knowing  who  the  per- 
sons are  to  whom  the  peasantry  in  my  rounds  look  with  re- 
spect and  good-will,  and  whom  they  consider  their  friends 
as  well  as  their  betters.  And,  in  like  manner,  I  know  who 
they  are  from  whom  they  never  expect  either  courtesy  or 
kindness." 

"  You  are  right,  my  friend  ;  and  Deborah  is  right.  Her 
answer  came  from  a  wise  heart;  and  I  was  not  sorry  that 
her  determination  was  so  promptly  made,  and  so  resolutely 
pronounced.  But  I  wish,  if  it  had  pleased  God,  the  offer 
had  been  one  which  she  could  have  accepted  with  her  own 
willing  consent,  and  with  my  full  approbation." 

"  Yet,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  I  have  often  thought  how  sad 
a  thing  it  would  be  for  you  ever  to  part  with  her." 

"  Far  more  sad  will  it  be  for  me  to  leave  her  unprotected, 
as  it  is  but  too  likely  that,  in  the  ordinary  course  of  nature 
I  one  day  shall;  and  as  any  day  in  that  same  ordinary 


A   LOVE   STORY.  227 

course,  I  so  possibly  may  !  Our  best  intentions,  even  when 
they  have  been  most  prudentially  formed,  fail  often  in  their 
issue.  I  meant  to  train  up  Deborah  in  the  way  she  should 
go,  by  fitting  her  for  that  state  of  life  in  which  it  had  pleased 
God  to  place  her ;  so  that  she  might  have  made  a  good  wife 
for  some  honest  man  in  the  humbler  walks  of  life,  and  have 
been  happy  with  him." 

"  And  how  was  it  possible,"  replied  the  Doctor,  "  that  you 
could  have  succeeded  better  ?  Is  she  not  qualified  to  be  a 
good  man's  wife  in  any  rank  ?  Her  manner  would  not  do 
discredit  to  a  mansion ;  her  management  would  make  a  farm 
prosperous,  or  a  cottage  comfortable ;  and  for  her  principles, 
and  temper  and  cheerfulness,  they  would  render  any  home 
a  happy  one." 

"  You  have  not  spoken  too  highly  in  her  praise,  Doctor. 
But  as  she  has  from  her  childhood  been  all  in  all  to  me, 
there  is  a  danger  that  I  rifay  have  become  too  much  so  to 
her ;  and  that,  while  her  habits  have  properly  been  made 
conformable  to  our  poor  means  and  her  poor  prospects,  she 
has  been  accustomed  to  a  way  of  thinking,  and  a  kind  of 
conversation,  which  have  given  her  a  distaste  for  those 
whose  talk  is  only  of  sheep  and  of  oxen,  and  whose  thoughts 
never  get  beyond  the  range  of  their  every  day  employments. 
In  her  present  circle,  I  do  not  think  there  is  one  man  with 
whom  she  might  otherwise  have  had  a  chance  of  settling  in 
life,  to  whom  she  would  not  have  the  same  intellectual  ob- 
jections as  to  Joseph  Hebblethwaite :  though  I  am  glad  that 
the  moral  objection  was  that  which  first  instinctively  oc- 
curred to  her. 

"I  wish  it  were  otherwise,  both  for  her  sake  and  my 
own:  for  hers,  because  the  present  separation  would  have 
more  than  enough  to  compensate  it,  and  would  in  its  con- 
sequences mitigate  the  evil  of  the  final  one,  whenever  that 
may  be  ;  for  my  own,  because  I  should  then  have  no  cause 
whatever  to  render  the  prospect  of  dissolution  otherwise 


228  ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 

than  welcome,  but  be  as  willing  to  die  as  to  sleep.  It  is 
not  owing  to  any  distrust  in  Providence,  that  I  am  not  thus 
willing  now,  —  God  forbid !  But  if  I  gave  heed  to  my  own 
feelings,  I  should  think  that  I  am  not  long  for  this  world ; 
and  surely  it  were  wise  to  remove,  if  possible,  the  only  cause 
that  makes  me  fear  to  think  so." 

"  Are  you  sensible  of  any  symptons  that  can  lead  to  such 
an  apprehension  ?  "  said  the  Doctor. 

"  Of  nothing  that  can  be  called  a  sympton.  I  am  to  all 
appearance  in  good  health,  of  sound  body  and  mind ;  and 
you  know  how  unlikely  my  habits  are  to  occasion  any  dis- 
turbance in  either.  But  I  have  indefinable  impressions,  — 
sensations  they  might  almost  be  called,  —  which,  as  I  can- 
not but  feel  them,  so  I  cannot  but  regard  them." 

"  Can  you  not  describe  these  sensations?" 

"  No  better  than  by  saying,  that  they  hardly  amount  to 
sensations,  and  are  indescribable." 

"  Do  not,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  I  entreat  you,  give  way  to 
any  feelings  of  this  kind.  They  may  lead  to  consequences 
which,  without  shortening  or  endangering  life,  would  render 
it  anxious  and  burdensome,  and  destroy  both  your  useful- 
ness and  your  comfort." 

"  I  have  this  feeling,  Doctor ;  and  you  shall  prescribe  for 
it,  if  you  think  it  requires  either  regimen  or  physic.  But  at 
present  yon  will  do  me  more  good  by  assisting  me  to  pro- 
cure for  Deborah  such  a  situation  as  she  must  necessarily 
look  for  on  the  event  of  my  death.  What  I  have  laid  by, 
even  if  it  should  be  most  advantageously  disposed  of,  would 
afford  her  only  a  bare  subsistence ;  it  is  a  resource  in  case 
of  sickness,  but  while  in  health,  it  would  never  be  her  wish 
to  eat  the  bread  of  idleness.  You  may  have  opportunities 
of  learning  whether  any  lady  within  the  circle  of  your  prac- 
tice wants  a  young  person  in  whom  she  might  confide,  either 
as  an  attendant  upon  herself,  or  to  assist  in  the  management 
of  her  children,  or  her  household.  You  may  be  sure  this  is 


A   LOVE  STORY.  229 

not  the  first  time  that  I  have  thought  upon  the  subject ;  but 
the  circumstance  which  has  this  day  occurred,  and  the  feel- 
ing of  which  I  have  spoken,  have  pressed  it  upon  my  con- 
sideration. And  the  inquiry  may  better  be  made,  and  the 
step  taken  while  it  is  a  matter  of  foresight,  than  when  it  has 
become  one  of  necessity." 

"  Let  me  feel  your  pulse !  " 

"  You  will  detect  no  other  disorder  there,"  said  Mr.  Bacon, 
holding  out  his  arm  as  he  spake,  "  than  what  has  been  caused 
by  this  conversation,  and  the  declaration  of  a  purpose,  which, 
though  for  some  time  perpended,  I  had  never  till  now  fully 
acknowledged  to  myself." 

"  You  have  never  then  mentioned  it  to  Deborah  ?  " 

"  In  no  other  way  than  by  sometimes  incidentally  speak- 
ing of  the  way  of  life  which  would  be  open  to  her,  in  case 
of  her  being  unmarried  at  my  death." 

"  And  you  have  made  up  your  mind  to  part  with 
her?" 

"  Upon  a  clear  conviction  that  I  ought  to  do  so ;  that  it  is 
best  for  herself  and  me." 

"  Well,  then,  you  will  allow  me  to  converse  with  her 
first  upon  a  different  subject.  —  You  will  permit  me  to  see 
whether  I  can  speak  more  successfully  for  myself,  than  you 
have  done  for  Joseph  Hebblethwaite.  —  Have  I  your  con- 
sent?" 

Mr.  Bacon  rose  in  great  emotion,  and  taking  his  friend's 
hand,  pressed  it  fervently  and  tremulously.  Presently  they 
heard  the  wicket  open,  and  Deborah  came  in. 

"  I  dare  say,  Deborah,"  said  her  father,  composing  himself, 
"  you  have  been  telling  Betsey  Allison  of  the  advantageous 
offer  that  you  have  this  day  refused." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Deborah ;  "  and  what  do  you  think  she 
said?  That  little  as  she  likes  him,  rather  than  that  I 
should  be  thrown  away  upon  such  a  man,  she  could  almost 
make  up  her  mind  to  marry  him  herself." 


230  EGBERT   SOUTHEY. 

"  And  I,"  said  the  Doctor, "  rather  than  such  a  man  should 
have  you,  would  marry  you  myself." 

"  Was  not  I  right  in  refusing  him,  Doctor  ?  " 

"  So  right,  that  you  never  pleased  me  so  well  before  ;  and 
never  can  please  me  better,  —  unless  you  will  accept  of  me 
in  his  stead." 

She  gave  a  little  start,  and  looked  at  him  half  incredu- 
lously, and  half  angrily  withal ;  as  if  what  he  had  said  was 
too  light  in  its  manner  to  be  serious,  and  yet  too  serious  in 
its  import  to  be  spoken  in  jest.  But  when  he  took  her  by 
the  hand,  and  said,  "  Will  you,  dear  Deborah  ?  "  with  a  pres- 
sure, and  in  a  tone  that  left  no  doubt  of  his  earnest  meaning, 
she  cried,  "  Father,  what  am  I  to  say  ?  speak  for  me  ! "  — 
"  Take  her,  my  friend ! "  said  Mr.  Bacon.  "  My  blessing  be 
upon  you  both.  And,  if  it  be  not  presumptuous  to  use  the 
words,  —  let  me  say  for  myself, '  Lord,  now  lettest  thou  thy 
servant  depart  in  peace ! ' " 

CHAPTER   XV. 

THE  WEDDING  PEAL  AT  ST.  GEORGE'S,  AND  THE  BEIDE'S 
APPEABANCE  AT  CHUKCH. 

IN  the  month  of  April,  1761,  the  Doctor  brought  home 
his  bride  to  Doncaster.  Many  eyes  were  turned  upon  her 
when  she  made  her  appearance  at  St.  George's  Church. 
The  novelty  of  the  place  made  her  less  regardful  of  this 
than  she  might  otherwise  have  been.  Hollis  Pigot,  who 
held  the  vicarage  of  .Doncaster  thirty  years,  and  was  then 
in  the  last  year  of  his  incumbency  and  his  life,  performed 
the  service  that  day.  I  know  not  among  what  description 
of  preachers  he  was  to  be  classed ;  whether  with  those  who 
obtain  attention,  and  command  respect,  and  win  confidence, 
and  strengthen  belief,  and  inspire  hope,  or  with  the  far  more 
numerous  race  of  Spintexts  and  of  Martexts.  But  if  he 


A   LOVE   STORY.  231 

had  preached  that  morning  with  the  tongue  of  an  angel, 
the  bride  would  have  had  no  ears  for  him.  Her  thoughts 
were  neither  upon  those  who  on  their  way  from  church 
would  talk  over  her  instead  of  the  sermon,  nor  of  the  ser- 
vice, nor  of  her  husband,  nor  of  herself  in  her  new  charac- 
ter, but  of  her  father,  —  and  with  a  feeling  which  might 
almost  be  called  funereal,  that  she  had  passed  from  under 
his  pastoral  as  well  as  his  paternal  care. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

SOMETHING    SEBIOU8. 

If  thou  hast  read  all  this  book,  and  art  never  the  better,  yet  catch  this 
flower  before  thou  go  out  of  the  garden,  and  peradventure  the  scent 
thereof  will  bring  thee  back  to  smell  the  rest. 

HENEY  SMITH. 

DEBORAH  found  no  one  in  Doncaster  to  supply  the  place 
of  Betty  Allison  in  the  daily  intercourse  of  familiar  and 
perfect  friendship.  That  indeed  was  impossible;  no  after- 
math has  the  fragrance  and  the  sweetness  of  the  first  crop. 
But  why  do  I  call  her  Deborah?  She  had  never  been 
known  by  that  name  to  her  new  neighbors ;  and  to  her  very 
father  she  was  now  spoken  of  as  Mrs.  Dove.  Even  the 
Allisons  called  her  so  in  courteous  and  customary  usage,  but 
not  without  a  melancholy  reflection,  that  when  Deborah 
Bacon  became  Mrs.  Dove,  she  was  in  a  great  measure  lost 
to  them. 

Friendship,  although  it  ceases  not 
In  marriage,  is  yet  at  less  command 
Than  when  a  single  freedom  can  dispose  it.* 

Doncaster  has  less  of  the  Rus  in  Urbe  now  than  it  had  in 
those  days,  and  than  Bath  had  when  those  words  were 

*Pord. 


232  ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 

placed  over  the  door  of  a  lodging-house,  on  the  North 
Parade.  And  the  house  to  which  the  Doctor  brought  home 
his  bride,  had  less  of  it  than  when  Peter  Hopkins  set  up 
the  gilt  pestle  and  mortar  there  as  the  cognizance  of  his 
vocation.  It  had  no  longer  that  air  of  quiet  respectability 
which  belongs  to  such  a  dwelling  in  the  best  street  of  a 
small  country  town.  The  Mansion  House,  by  which  it  was 
dwarfed  and  inconvenienced  in  many  ways,  occasioned  a 
stir  and  bustle  about  it,  unlike  the  cheerful  business  of  a  mar- 
ket day.  The  back  windows,  however,  still  looked  to  the 
fields,  and  there  was  still  a  garden.  But  neither  fields  nor 
garden  could  prevail  over  the  odor  of  the  shop,  in  which,  like 

Hot,  cold,  moist  and  dry,  four  champions  fierce, 

in  Milton's  Chaos,  rhubarb  and  peppermint,  and  valerian,  and 
assafoetida,  "  strove  for  mastery,"  and  to  battle  brought  their 
atoms.  Happy  was  the  day  when  peppermint  predomi- 
nated ;  though  it  always  reminded  Mrs.  Dove  of  Thaxted 
Grange,  and  the  delight  with  which  she  used  to  assist  Miss 
Allison  in  her  distillations.  There  is  an  Arabian  proverb 
which  says,  "  The  remembrance  of  youth  is  a  sigh." 
Southey  has  taken  it  for  the  text  of  one  of  those  juvenile 
poems  in  which  he  dwells  with  thoughtful  forefeeling  upon 
the  condition  of  declining  life. 

Miss  Allison  had  been  to  her,  not  indeed  as  a  mother,  but 
as  what  a  stepmother  is,  who  is  led  by  natural  benevolence, 
and  a  religious  sense  of  duty,  to  perform  as  far  as  possible 
a  mother's  part  to  her  husband's  children.  There  are  more 
such  stepmothers  than  the  world  is  willing  to  believe,  and 
they  have  their  reward  here  as  well  as  hereafter.  It  was 
impossible  that  any  new  friend  could  fill  up  her  place  in 
Mrs.  Dove's  affections,  —  impossible  that  she  could  ever  feel 
for  another  woman  the  respect,  and  reverence,  and  grati- 
tude, which  blended  with  her  love  for  this  excellent  person. 
Though  she  was  born  within  four  miles  of  Doncaster,  and 


A   LOVE   STORY.  233 

had  lived  till  her  marriage  in  the  humble  vicarage  in  which 
she  was  born,  she  had  never  passed  four-and-twenty  hours 
in  that  town  before  she  went  to  reside  there  ;  nor  had  she 
the  slightest  acquaintance  with  any  of  its  inhabitants,  except 
the  few  shopkeepers  with  whom  her  little  dealings  had  lain, 
and  the  occasional  visitants  whom  she  had  met  at  the 
Grange. 

An  Irish  officer  in  the  army,  happening  to  be  passenger 
in  an  armed  vessel  during  the  last  war,  used  frequently  to 
wish  that  they  might  fall  in  with  an  enemy's  ship,  because 
he  said,  he  had  been  in  many  land  battles,  and  there  was 
nothing  in  the  world  which  he  desired  more  than  to  see 
•what  sort  of  a  thing  a  sea-fight  was.  He  had  his  wish, 
and  when  after  a  smart  action,  in  which  he  bore  his  part 
bravely,  an  enemy  of  superior  force  had  been  beaten  off, 
he  declared  with  the  customary  emphasis  of  an  Hibernian 
adjuration,  that  a  sea-fight  was  a  mighty  sairious  sort  of 
thing. 

The  Doctor  and  Deborah,  as  soon  as  they  were  be- 
trothed, had  come  to  just  the  same  conclusion  upon  a  very 
different  subject.  Till  the  day  of  their  engagement,  nay, 
till  the  hour  of  proposal  on  his  part,  and  the  very  instant 
of  acceptance  on  hers,  each  had  looked  upon  marriage, 
when  the  thought  of  it  occurred,  as  a  distant  possibility, 
more  or  less  desirable,  according  to  the  circumstances  which 
introduced  the  thought,  and  the  mood  in  which  it  was  enter- 
tained. And  when  it  was  spoken  of  sportively,  as  might 
happen,  in  relation  to  either  the  one  or  the  other,  it  was 
lightly  treated  as  a  subject  in  which  they  had  no  concern. 
But  from  the  time  of  their  engagement,  it  seemed  to  both 
the  most  serious  event  of  their  lives. 

In  the  Dutch  village  of  Broek,  concerning  which,  singu- 
lar as  the  habits  of  the  inhabitants  are,  travellers  have  re- 
lated more  peculiarities  than  ever  prevailed  there,  one 
remarkable  custom  shows  with  how  serious  a  mind  some  of 


234  ROBERT   SOUTHEY. 

the  Hollanders  regard  marriage.  The  great  house-door  is 
never  opened  but  when  the  master  of  the  house  brings 
home  his  bride  from  the  altar,  and  when  husband  and 
wife  are  borne  out  to  the  grave.  Dr.  Dove  had  seen  that 
village  of  great  baby-houses ;  but  though  much  attached 
to  Holland,  and  to  the  Dutch  as  a  people,  and  disposed  to 
think  that  we  might  learn  many  useful  lessons  from  our 
prudent  and  thrifty  neighbors,  he  thought  this  to  be  as  pre- 
posterous, if  not  as  shocking  a  custom,  as  it  would  be  to 
have  the  bell  toll  at  a  marriage,  and  to  wear  a  winding- 
sheet  for  a  wedding  garment. 

We  look  with  wonder  at  the  transformations  that  take 
place  in  insects,  and  yet  their  physical  metamorphoses  are 
not  greater  than  the  changes  which  we  ourselves  undergo 
morally  and  intellectually,  both  in  our  relations  to  others 
and  in  our  individual  nature.  Chaque  individu,  considers 
separement,  differs  encore  de  lui-meme  par  Feffet  du  terns; 
il  devient  un  autre,  en  quelque  maniere,  aux  diverses  epoques 
de  sa  vie.  L'enfant,  Fhomme  rait,  le  vieittard,  sont  comme 
autant  d'etrangers  unis  dans  une  seule  personne  par  le  lien 
mysterieux  du  souvenir.*  Of  all  changes  in  life,  marriage  is 
certainly  the  greatest,  and  though  less  change  in  every  re- 
spect can  very  rarely  be  produced  by  it  in  any  persons 
than  in  the  Doctor  and  his  wife,  it  was  very  great  to 
both.  On  his  part  it  was  altogether  an  increase  of  hap- 
piness ;  or  rather,  from  having  been  contented  in  his  sta- 
tion he  became  happy  in  it,  so  happy  as  to  be  exper- 
imentally convinced  that  there  can  be  no  "single  bless- 
edness" for  man.  There  were  some  drawbacks  on  her 
part,  —  in  the  removal  from  a  quiet  vicarage  to  a  busy 
street;  in  the  obstacle  which  four  miles  opposed  to  that 
daily  and  intimate  intercourse  with  her  friends  at  the 
Grange,  which  had  been  the  chief  delight  of  her  maiden 
life  ;  and  above  all,  in  the  separation  from  her  father,  —  for 

*  Nccker. 


A   LOVE   STORY.  235 

even  at  a  distance  which  may  appear  so  inconsiderable,  such 
it  was ;  but  there  was  the  consolatory  reflection,  that  those 
dear  friends  and  that  dear  father  concurred  in  approving 
her  marriage,  and  in  rejoicing  in  it  for  her  sake ;  and  the 
experience  of  every  day  and  every  year  made  her  more  and 
more  thankful  for  her  lot.  In  the  full  liturgic  sense  of  the 
word,  he  worshipped  her,  that  is,  he  loved  and  cherished  and 
respected  and  honored  her ;  and  she  would  have  obeyed 
him  cheerfully  as  well  as  dutifully,  if  obedience  could  have 
been  shown  where  there  was  ever  but  one  will. 


THE  MYSTIC   SUMMER 


BY   BAYARD   TAYLOR 

Til  IS  not  the  dropping  of  the  flower, 
I     The  blush  of  fruit  upon  the  tree, 

Though  Summer  ripens,  hour  by  hour, 
The  garden's  sweet  maternity : 

'T  is  not  that  birds  have  ceased  to  build, 
And  wait  their  brood  with  tender  care ; 

That  corn  is  golden  in  the  field, 
And  clover  balm  is  in  the  air ;  — 

Not  these  the  season's  splendor  bring, 
And  crowd  with  life  the  happy  year, 

Nor  yet,  where  yonder  fountains  sing, 
The  blaze  of  sunshine,  hot  and  clear. 

In  thy  full  womb,  O  Summer !  lies 

A  secret  hope,  a  joy  unsung, 
Held  in  the  hush  of  these  calm  skies, 

And  trembling  on  the  forest's  tongue. 

The  lands  of  harvest  throb  anew 

In  shining  pulses,  far  away ; 
The  Night  distils  a  dearer  dew, 

And  sweeter  eyelids  has  the  Day. 


THE   MYSTIC    SUMMER.  237 

And  not  in  vain  the  peony  burns 

In  bursting  globes,  her  crimson  fire, 
Her  incense-dropping  ivory  urns 

The  lily  lifts  in  many  a  spire : 

And  not  in  vain  the  tulips  clash 

In  revelry  the  cups  they  hold 
Of  fiery  wine,  until  they  dash 

With  ruby  streaks  the  splendid  gold ! 

Send  down  your  roots  the  mystic  charm 
That  warms  and  flushes  all  your  flowers, 

And  with  the  summer's  touch  disarm 
The  thraldom  of  the  under  powers, 

Until,  in  caverns,  buried  deep, 

Strange  fragrance  reach  the  diamond's  home, 
And  murmurs  of  the  garden  sweep 

The  houses  of  the  frighted  gnome  ! 

For,  piercing  through  their  black  repose, 

And  shooting  up  beyond  the  sun, 
I  see  that  Tree  of  Life,  which  rose 

Before  the  eyes  of  Solomon  : 

Its  boughs,  that,  in  the  light  of  God, 

Their  bright,  innumerous  leaves  display,  — 

Whose  hum  of  life  is  borne  abroad 
By  winds  that  shake  the  dead  away. 

And,  trembling  on  a  branch  afar, 

The  topmost  nursling  of  the  skies, 
I  see  my  bud,  the  fairest  star 

That  ever  dawned  for  watching  eyes. 


238  BAYARD   TAYLOR. 

Unnoticed  on  the  boundless  tree, 
Its  fragrant  promise  fills  the  air ; 

Its  little  bell  expands,  for  me, 
A  tent  of  silver,  lily-fair. 

All  life  to  that  one  centre  tends ; 

All  joy  and  beauty  thence  outflow ; 
Her  sweetest  gifts  the  summer  spends, 

To  teach  that  sweeter  bud  to  blow. 

So,  compassed  by  the  vision's  gleam, 
In  trembling  hope,  from  day  to  day, 

As  in  some  bright,  bewildering  dream, 
The  mystic  summer  wanes  away. 


TWO   OF  THE   OLD  MASTERS. 


BY  MRS.  JAMESON. 

WITHIN  a  short  period  of  about  thirty  years,  that 
is,  between  1490  and  1520,  the  greatest  painters 
whom  the  world  has  yet  seen  were  living  and  working 
together.  On  looking  back,  we  cannot  but  feel  that  the 
excellence  they  attained  was  the  result  of  the  efforts  and 
aspirations  of  a  preceding  age ;  and  yet  these  men  were  so 
great  in  their  vocation,  and  so  individual  in  their  greatness, 
that,  losing  sight  of  the  linked  chain  of  progress,  they 
seemed  at  first  to  have  had  no  precursors,  as  they  have 
since  had  no  peers.  Though  living  at  the  same  time,  and 
most  of  them  in  personal  relation  with  each  other,  the  direc- 
tion of  each  mind  was  different  —  was  peculiar ;  though 
exercising  in  some  sort  a  reciprocal  influence,  this  influence 
never  interfered  with  the  most  decided  originality.  These 
wonderful  artists,  who  would  have  been  remarkable  men  in 
their  time,  though  they  had  never  touched  a  pencil,  were 
Lionardo  da  Vinci,  Michael  Angelo,  Raphael,  Correggio, 
Giorgione,  Titian,  in  Italy ;  and  in  Germany,  Albert  Durer. 
Of  these  men,  we  might  say,  as  of  Homer  and  Shakespeare, 
that  they  belong  to  no  particular  age  or  country,  but  to  all 
time,  and  to  the  universe.  That  they  flourished  together 
within  one  brief  aud  brilliant  period,  and  that  each  carried 
out  to  the  highest  degree  of  perfection  his  own  peculiar 
aims,  was  no  casualty ;  nor  are  we  to  seek  for  the  causes  of 
this  surpassing  excellence  merely  in  the  history  of  the  art  as 


240  MRS.   JAMESON. 

such.  The  causes  lay  far  deeper,  and  must  be  referred  to  the 
history  of  human  culture.  The  fermenting  activity  of  the 
fifteenth  century  found  its  results  in  the  extraordinary  devel- 
opment of  human  intelligence  in  the  commencement  of  the 
sixteenth  century.  We  often  hear  in  these  days  of  "  the 
spirit  of  the  age  "  ;  but  in  that  wonderful  age  three  mighty 
spirits  were  stirring  society  to  its  depths :  —  the  spirit  of 
bold  investigation  into  truths  of  all  kinds,  which  led  to  the 
Reformation  ;  the  spirit  of  daring  adventure,  which  led  men 
in  search  of  new  worlds  beyond  the  eastern  and  the  western 
oceans ;  arid  the  spirit  of  art,  through  which  men  soared  even 
to  the  "  seventh  heaven  of  invention." 


LIONARDO    DA    VINCI. 

LIONARDO  DA  VINCI  seems  to  present  in  his  own  person  a 
resume  of  all  the  characteristics  of  the  age  in  which  he  lived. 
He  was  the  miracle  of  that  age  of  miracles.  Ardent  and 
versatile  as  youth ;  patient  and  persevering  as  age ;  a  most 
profound  and  original  thinker ;  the  greatest  mathematician 
and  most  ingenious  mechanic  of  his  time  ;  architect,  chemist, 
engineer,  musician,  poet,  painter  !  —  we  are  not  only  astound- 
ed by  the  variety  of  his  natural  gifts  and  acquired  knowl- 
edge, but  by  the  practical  direction  of  his  amazing  powers. 
The  extracts  which  have  been  published  from  MSS.  now 
existing  in  his  own  handwriting  show  him  to  have  antici- 
pated, by  the  force  of  his  own  intellect,  some  of  the  greatest 
discoveries  made  since  his  time.  These  fragments,  says  Mr. 
Hallam,  "  are,  according  to  our  common  estimate  of  the  age 
in  which  he  lived,  more  like  revelations  of  physical  truths 
vouchsafed  to  a  single  mind,  than  the  superstructure  of  its 
reasoning  upon  any  established  basis.  The  discoveries  which 
made  Galileo,  Kepler,  Castelli,  and  other  names  illustrious 
—  the  system  of  Copernicus  —  the  very  theories  of  recent 
geologists,  are  anticipated  by  Da  Vinci  within  the  compass 


TWO   OF   THE   OLD    MASTERS.  241 

of  a  few  pages,  not  perhaps  in  the  most  precise  language, 
or  on  the  most  conclusive  reasoning,  but  so  as  to  strike  us 
with  something  like  the  awe  of  preternatural  knowledge. 
In  an  age  of  so  much  dogmatism,  he  first  laid  down  the 
grand  principle  of  Bacon,  that  experiment  and  observation 
must  be  the  guides  to  just  theory  in  the  investigation  of 
nature.  If  any  doubt  could  be  harbored,  not  as  to  the  right 
of  Lionardo  da  Vinci  to  stand  as  the  first  name  of  the  fif- 
teenth century,  which  is  beyond  all  doubt,  but  as  to  his 
originality  in  so  many  discoveries  which  probably  no  one 
man,  especially  in  such  circumstances,  has  ever  made,  it 
must  be  by  an  hypothesis  not  very  untenable,  that  some  parts 
of  physical  science  had  already  attained  a  height  which 
mere  books  do  not  record." 

It  seems  at  first  sight  almost  incomprehensible  that,  thus 
endowed  as  a  philosopher,  mechanic,  inventor,  discoverer, 
the  fame  of  Lionardo  should  now  rest  on  the  works  he  has 
left  as  a  painter.  We  cannot,  within  these  limits,  attempt 
to  explain  why  and  how  it  is  that  as  the  man  of  science  he 
has  been  naturally  and  necessarily  left  behind  by  the  onward 
march  of  intellectual  progress,  while  as  the  poet-painter  he 
still  survives  as  a  presence  and  a  power.  "We  must  proceed 
at  once  to  give  some  account  of  him  in  the  character  in 
which  he  exists  to  us  and  for  us,  —  that  of  the  great  artist. 

Lionardo  was  born  at  Vinci,  near  Florence,  in  the  Lower 
Val  d'  Arno,  on  the  borders  of  the  territory  of  Pistoia. 
His  father,  Piero  da  Vinci,  was  an  advocate  of  Florence,  — 
not  rich,  but  in  independent  circumstances,  and  possessed  of 
estates  in  land.  The  singular  talents  of  his  son  induced 
Piero  to  give  him,  from  an  early  age,  the  advantage  of  the 
best  instructors.  As  a  child,  he  distinguished  himself  by 
his  proficiency  in  arithmetic  and  mathematics.  Music  he 
studied  early,  as  a  science  as  well  as  an  art.  He  invented 
a  species  of  lyre  for  himself,  and  sung  his  own  poetical  com- 
positions to  his  own  music,  —  both  being  frequently  extempo- 
11  f 


242  MRS.    JAMESON. 

raneous.  But  his  favorite  pursuit  was  the  art  of  design  in  all 
its  branches ;  he  modelled  in  clay  or  wax,  or  attempted  to 
draw  every  object  which  struck  his  fancy.  His  father  sent 
him  to  study  under  Andrea  Verrocchio,  famous  as  a  sculp- 
tor, chaser  in  metal,  and  painter.  Andrea,  who  was  an  ex- 
cellent and  correct  designer,  but  a  bad  and  hard  colorist, 
was  soon  after  engaged  to  paint  a  picture  of  the  Baptism  of 
our  Saviour.  He  employed  Lionardo,  then  a  youth,  to  exe- 
cute one  of  the  angles.  This  he  did  with  so  much  softness 
and  richness  of  color  that  it  far  surpassed  the  rest  of  the  pic- 
ture ;  and  Verrocchio  from  that  time  threw  away  his  palette, 
and  confined  himself  wholly  to  his  works  in  sculpture  and 
design ;  "  enraged,"  says  Vasari,  "  that  a  child  should  thus 
excel  him." 

The  youth  of  Lionardo  thus  passed  away  in  the  pursuit  of 
science  and  of  art.  Sometimes  he  was  deeply  engaged  in 
astronomical  calculations  and  investigations ;  sometimes  ar- 
dent in  the  study  of  natural  history,  botany,  and  anatomy; 
sometimes  intent  on  new  effects  of  color,  light,  shadow,  or 
expression,  in  representing  objects  animate  or  inanimate. 
Versatile,  yet  persevering,  he  varied  his  pursuits,  but  he 
never  abandoned  any.  He  was  quite  a  young  man  when  he 
conceived  and  demonstrated  the  practicability  of  two  magnifi- 
cent projects.  One  was,  to  lift  the  whole  of  the  Church  of 
San  Lorenzo,  by  means  of  immense  levers,  some  feet  higher 
than  it  now  stands,  and  thus  supply  the  deficient  elevation  ; 
the  other  project  was,  to  form  the  Arno  into  a  navigable 
canal,  as  far  as  Pisa,  which  would  have  added  greatly  to  the 
commercial  advantages  of  Florence. 

It  happened  about  this  time  that  a  peasant  on  the  estate 
of  Piero  da  Vinci  brought  him  a  circular  piece  of  wood,  cut 
horizontally  from  the  trunk  of  a  very  large  old  fig-tree, 
which  had  been  lately  felled,  and  begged  to  have  something 
painted  on  it  as  an  ornament  for  his  cottage.  The  man 
being  an  especial  favorite,  Piero  desired  his  son  Lionardo 


TWO   OF  THE   OLD   MASTERS.  243 

to  gratify  his  request ;  and  Lionardo,  inspired  by  that  wild- 
ness  of  fancy  which  was  one  of  his  characteristics,  took  the 
panel  into  his  own  room,  and  resolved  to  astonish  his  father 
by  a  most  unlooked-for  proof  of  his  art.  He  determined  to 
compose  something  which  should  have  an  effect  similar  to 
that  of  the  Medusa  on  the  shield  of  Perseus,  and  almost 
petrify  beholders.  Aided  by  his  recent  studies  in  natural 
history,  he  collected  together  from  the  neighboring  swamps 
and  the  river-mud  all  kinds  of  hideous  reptiles,  as  adders, 
lizards,  toads,  serpents ;  insects,  as  moths,  locusts ;  and  other 
crawling  and  flying,  obscene  and  obnoxious  things ;  and  out 
of  these  he  compounded  a  sort  of  monster,  or  chimera,  which 
he  represented  as  about  to  issue  from  the  shield,  with  eyes 
flashing  fire,  and  of  an  aspect  so  fearful  and  abominable  that 
it  seemed  to  infect  the  very  air  around.  When  finished,  he 
led  his  father  into  the  room  in  which  it  was  placed,  and  the 
terror  and  horror  of  Piero  proved  the  success  of  his  at- 
tempt. This  production,  afterwards  known  as  the  Rotello 
del  Fico,  from  the  material  on  which  it  was  painted,  was  sold 
by  Piero  secretly  for  one  hundred  ducats,  to  a  merchant, 
who  carried  it  to  Milan,  and  sold  it  to  the  duke  for  three 
hundred.  To  the  poor  peasant  thus  cheated  of  his  Rotello, 
Piero  gave  a  wooden  shield,  on  which  was  painted  a  heart 
transfixed  by  a  dart ;  a  device  better  suited  to  his  taste  and 
comprehension.  In  the  subsequent  troubles  of  Milan,  Lion- 
ardo's  picture  disappeared,  and  was  probably  destroyed,  as  an 
object  of  horror,  by  those  who  did  not  understand  its  value 
as  a  work  of  art. 

The  anomalous  monster  represented  on  the  Rotello  was 
wholly  different  from  the  Medusa,  afterwards  painted  by 
Lionardo,  and  now  existing  in  the  Florence  Gallery.  It 
represents  the  severed  head  of  Medusa,  seen  foreshortened, 
lying  on  a  fragment  of  rock.  The  features  are  beautiful 
and  regular;  the  hair  already  metamorphosed  into  ser- 
pents, 


244  MRS.   JAMESON. 

"  which  curl  and  flow, 
And  their  long  tangles  in  each  other  lock, 
And  with  unending  involutions  show 
Their  mailed  radiance." 

Those  who  have  once  seen  this  terrible  and  fascinating  pic- 
ture can  never  forget  it.  The  ghastly  head  seems  to  expire, 
and  the  serpents  to  crawl  into  glittering  life,  as  we  look 
upon  it. 

During  this  first  period  of  his  life,  which  was  wholly 
passed  in  Florence  and  its  neighborhood,  Lionardo  painted 
several  other  pictures,  of  a  very  different  character,  and  de- 
signed some  beautiful  cartoons  of  sacred  and  mythological 
subjects*  which  showed  that  his  sense  of  the  beautiful,  the 
elevated,  and  the  graceful,  was  not  less  a  part  of  his  mind, 
than  that  eccentricity  and  almost  perversion  of  fancy  which 
made  him  delight  in  sketching  ugly,  exaggerated  caricatures, 
and  representing  the  deformed  and  the  terrible. 

Lionardo  da  Vinci  was  now  about  thirty  years  old,  in  the 
prime  of  his  life  and  talents.  His  taste  for  pleasure  and 
expense  was,  however,  equal  to  his  genius  and  indefatigable 
industry ;  and,  anxious  to  secure  a  certain  provision  for  the 
future,  as  well  as  a  wider  field  for  the  exercise  of  his  various 
talents,  he  accepted  the  invitation  of  Ludovico  Sforza  il 
Moro,  then  regent,  afterwards  Duke  of  Milan,  to  reside  in 
his  court,  and  to  execute  a  colossal  equestrian  statue  of  his 
ancestor  Francesco  Sforza.  Here  begins  the  second  period 
of  his  artistic  career,  which  includes  his  sojourn  at  Milan, 
that  is,  from  1483  to  1499. 

Vasari  says  that  Lionardo  was  invited  to  the  court  of 
Milan  for  the  Duke  Ludovico's  amusement,  "  as  a  musician 
and  performer  on  the  lyre,  and  as  the  greatest  singer  and 
improvisatore  of  his  time " ;  but  this  is  improbable.  Lio- 
nardo, in  his  long  letter  to  that  prince,  in  which  he  recites 
his  own  qualifications  for  employment,  dwells  chiefly  on  his 
skill  in  engineering  and  fortification,  and  sums  up  his  pre- 


TWO   OF   THE  OLD   MASTERS.  245 

tensions  as  an  artist  in  these  few  brief  words :  "  I  under- 
stand the  different  modes  of  sculpture  in  marble,  bronze, 
and  terra-cotta.  In  painting,  also,  I  may  esteem  myself 
equal  to  any  one,  let  him  be  who  he  may."  Of  his  musical 
talents  he  makes  no  mention  whatever,  though  undoubtedly 
these,  as  well  as  his  other  social  accomplishments,  his  hand- 
some person,  his  winning  address,  his  wit  and  eloquence, 
recommended  him  to  the  notice  of  the  prince,  by  whom  he 
was  greatly  beloved,  and  in  whose  service  he  remained  for 
about  seventeen  years.  It  is  not  necessary,  nor  would  it  be 
possible  here,  to  give  a  particular  account  of  all  the  works 
in  which  Lionardo  was  engaged  for  his  patron,  nor  of  the 
great  political  events  in  which  he  was  involved,  more  by  his 
position  than  by  his  inclination ;  for  instance,  the  invasion 
of  Italy  by  Charles  VIII.  of  France,  and  the  subsequent  in- 
vasion of  Milan  by  Louis  XII.,  which  ended  in  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  Duke  Ludovico.  We  shall  only  mention  a  few 
of  the  pictures  he  executed.  One  of  these,  the  portrait  of 
Lucrezia  Crivelli,  is  now  in  the  Louvre  (No.  1091).  An- 
other was  the  Nativity  of  our  Saviour,  in  the  imperial 
collection  at  Vienna ;  but  the  greatest  work  of  all,  and  by 
far  the  grandest  picture  which,  up  to  that  time,  had  been 
executed  in  Italy,  was  the  Last  Supper,  painted  on  the  wall 
of  the  refectory,  or  dining-room,  of  the  Dominican  convent 
of  the  Madonna  delle  Grazie.  It  occupied  the  painter  about 
two  years.  Of  this  magnificent  creation  of  art  only  the 
mouldering  remains  are  now  visible.  It  has  been  so  often 
repaired,  that  almost  every  vestige  of  the  original  painting 
is  annihilated;  but,  from  the  multiplicity  of  descriptions, 
engravings,  and  copies  that  exist,  no  picture  is  more  uni- 
versally known  and  celebrated. 

The  moment  selected  by  the  painter  is  described  in  the 
twenty-sixth  chapter  of  St.  Matthew,  twenty-first  and 
twenty-second  verses :  "  And  as  they  did  eat,  he  said, 
Verily,  I  say  unto  you,  that  one  of  you  shall  betray  me : 


246  MBS.  JAMESON. 

and  they  were  exceedingly  sorrowful,  and  began  every  one 
of  them  to  say  unto  him,  Lord,  is  it  I  ?  "  The  knowledge 
of  character  displayed  in  the  heads  of  the  different  apostles 
is  even  more  wonderful  than  the  skilful  arrangement  of  the 
figures  and  the  amazing  beauty  of  the  workmanship.  The 
space  occupied  by  the  picture  is  a  wall  twenty-eight  feet  in 
length,  and  the  figures  are  larger  than  life.  The  best  judg- 
ment we  can  now  form  of  its  merits  is  from  the  fine  copy 
executed  by  one  of  Lionardo's  best  pupils,  Marco  Uggione, 
for  the  Certosa  at  Pavia,  and  now  in  London,  in  the  col- 
lection of  the  Royal  Academy.  Eleven  other  copies,  by 
various  pupils  of  Lionardo,  painted  either  during  his  life- 
time or  within  a  few  years  after  his  death,  while  the  picture 
was  in  perfect  preservation,  exist  in  different  churches  and 
collections. 

Of  the  grand  equestrian  statue  of  Francesco  Sforza,  Lio- 
nardo never  finished  more  than  the  model  in  clay,  which 
was  considered  a  masterpiece.  Some  years  afterwards,  (in 
1499,)  when  Milan  was  invaded  by  the  French,  it  was  used 
as  a  target  by  the  Gascon  bowmen,  and  completely  destroyed. 
The  profound  anatomical  studies  which  Lionardo  made  for 
this  work  still  exist. 

In  the  year  1500,  the  French  being  in  possession  of 
Milan,  his  patron  Ludovico  in  captivity,  and  the  affairs  of 
the  state  in  utter  confusion,  Lionardo  returned  to  his  native 
Florence,  where  he  hoped  to  re-establish  his  broken  for- 
tunes, and  to  find  employment.  Here  begins  the  third 
period  of  his  artistic  life,  from  1500  to  1513,  that  is,  from 
his  forty-eighth  to  his  sixtieth  year.  He  found  the  Medici 
family  in  exile,  but  was  received  by  Pietro  Soderini  (who 
governed  the  city  as  "  Gonfaloniere  perpetuo  ")  with  great 
distinction,  and  a  pension  was  assigned  to  him  as  painter  in 
the  service  of  the  republic. 

Then  began  the  rivalry  between  Lionardo  and  Michael 
Angelo,  which  lasted  during  the  remainder  of  Liouardo's 


TWO   OF   THE   OLD  MASTERS.  247 

life.  The  difference  of  age  (for  Michael  Angelo  was  twenty- 
two  years  younger)  ought  to  have  prevented  all  unseemly 
jealousy.  But  Michael  Angelo  was  haughty,  and  impatient 
of  all  superiority,  or  even  equality ;  Lionardo,  sensitive, 
capricious,  and  naturally  disinclined  to  admit  the  pretensions 
of  a  rival,  to  whom  he  could  say,  and  did  say,  "  I  was  famous 
before  you  were  born ! "  With  all  their  admiration  of  each 
other's  genius,  their  mutual  frailties  prevented  any  real 
good-will  on  either  side.  The  two  painters  competed  for 
the  honor  of  painting  in  fresco  one  side  of  the  great  Council- 
h/ill  in  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  at  Florence.  Each  prepared 
his  cartoon ;  each,  emulous  of  the  fame  and  conscious  of  the 
abilities  of  his  rival,  threw  all  his  best  powers  into  his  work. 
Lionardo  chose  for  his  subject  the  Defeat  of  the  Milanese 
general,  Niccol6  Piccinino,  by  the  Florentine  army  in  1440. 
One  of  the  finest  groups  represented  a  combat  of  cavalry 
disputing  the  possession  of  a  standard.  "  It  was  so  wonder- 
fully executed,  that  the  horses  themselves  seemed  animated 
by  the  same  fury  as  their  riders ;  nor  is  it  possible  to  de- 
scribe the  variety  of  attitudes,  the  splendor  of  the  dresses 
and  armor  of  the  warriors,  nor  the  incredible  skill  displayed 
in  the  forms  and  actions  of  the  horses." 

Michael  Angelo  chose  for  his  subject  the  moment  before 
the  same  battle,  when  a  party  of  Florentine  soldiers  bathing 
in  the  Arno  are  surprised  by  the  sound  of  the  trumpet  call- 
ing them  to  arms.  Of  this  cartoon  we  shall  have  more  to 
say  in  treating  of  his  life.  The  preference  was  given  to 
Lionardo  da  Vinci.  But,  as  Vasari  relates,  he  spent  so 
much  time  in  trying  experiments,  and  in  preparing  the  wall 
to  receive  oil  painting,  which  he  preferred  to  fresco,  that  in 
the  interval  some  changes  in  the  government  intervened, 
and  the  design  was  abandoned.  The  two  cartoons  remained 
for  several  years  open  to  the  public,  and  artists  flocked  from 
every  part  of  Italy  to  study  them.  Subsequently  they  were 
cut  up  into  separate  parts,  dispersed,  and  lost.  It  is  curious 


248  MRS.   JAMESON. 

that  of  Michael  Angelo's  composition  only  one  small  copy 
exists ;  of  Leonardo's,  not  one.  From  a  fragment  which  ex- 
isted in  his  time,  but  which  has  since  disappeared,  Rubens 
made  a  fine  drawing,  which  was  engraved  by  Edelinck,  and 
is  known  as  the  Battle  of  the  Standard. 

It  was  a  reproach  against  Lionardo,  in  his  own  time,  that 
he  began  many  things  and  finished  few ;  that  his  magnificent 
designs  and  projects,  whether  it  art  or  mechanics,  were  sel- 
dom completed.  This  may  be  a  subject  of  regret,  but  it  is 
unjust  to  make  it  a  reproach.  It  was  in  the  nature  of  the 
man.  The  grasp  of  his  mind  was  so  nearly  superhuman, 
that  he  never,  in  anything  he  effected,  satisfied  himself  or 
realized  his  own  vast  conceptions.  The  most  exquisitely 
finished  of  his  works,  those  that  in  the  perfection  of  the  exe- 
cution have  excited  the  wonder  and  despair  of  succeeding 
artists,  were  put  aside  by  him  as  unfinished  sketches.  Most 
of  the  pictures  now  attributed  to  him  were  wholly  or  in 
part  painted  by  his  scholars  and  imitators  from  his  cartoons. 
One  of  the  most  famous  of  these  was  designed  for  the  altar- 
piece  of  the  church  of  the  convent  called  the  Nunziata.  It 
represented  the  Virgin  Mary  seated  in  the  lap  of  her 
mother,  St.  Anna,  having  in  her  arms  the  infant  Christ, 
while  St.  John  is  playing  with  a  lamb  at  their  feet;  St. 
Anna,  looking  on  with  a  tender  smile,  rejoices  in  her  divine 
offspring.  The  figures  were  drawn  with  such  skill,  and  the 
various  expressions  proper  to  each  conveyed  with  such  inim- 
itable truth  and  grace,  that,  when  exhibited  in  a  chamber  of 
the  convent,  the  inhabitants  of  the  city  flocked  to  see  it,  and 
for  two  days  the  streets  were  crowded  with  people,  "  as  if  it 
had  been  some  solemn  festival "  ;  but  the  picture  was  never 
painted,  and  the  monks  of  the  Nunziata,  after  waiting  long 
and  in  vain  for  their  altar-piece,  were  obliged  to  employ 
other  artists.  The  cartoon,  or  a  very  fine  repetition  of  it, 
is  now  in  the  possession  of  the  Royal  Academy,  and  it  must 
not  be  confounded  with  the  St.  Anna  in  the  Louvre,  a  more 
fantastic  and  apparently  an  earlier  composition. 


TWO    OF   THE   OLD   MASTERS.  249 

Lionardo,  during  his  stay  at  Florence,  painted  the  por- 
trait of  Ginevra  Benci,  already  mentioned,  in  the  memoir  of 
Ghirlandajo,  as  the  reigning  beauty  of  her  time ;  and  also 
the  portrait  of  Mona  Lisa  del  Giocondo,  sometimes  called 
La  Joconde.  On  this  last  picture  he  worked  at  intervals 
for  four  years,  but  was  still  unsatisfied.  It  was  purchased 
by  Francis  I.  for  four  thousand  golden  crowns,  and  is  now 
in  the  Louvre.  We  find  Lionardo  also  engaged  by  Caesar 
Borgia  to  visit  and  report  on  the  fortifications  of  his  territo- 
ries, and  in  this  office  he  was  employed  for  two  years.  In 
1514  he  was  invited  to  Rome  by  Leo  X.,  but  more  in  his 
character  of  philosopher,  mechanic,  and  alchemist,  than  as  a 
painter.  Here  he  found  Raphael  at  the  height  of  his  fame, 
and  then  engaged  in  his  greatest  works,  —  the  frescos  of 
the  Vatican.  Two  pictures  which  Lionardo  painted  while 
at  Rome  —  the  Madonna  of  St.  Onofrio,  and  the  Holy  Fam- 
ily, painted  for  Filiberta  of  Savoy,  the  Pope's  sister-in-law 
(which  is  now  at  St.  Petersburg)  —  show  that  even  this 
veteran  in  art  felt  the  irresistible  influence  of  the  genius  of 
his  young  rival.  They  were  both  RaffaeUesque  in  the  sub- 
ject and  treatment. 

It  appears  that  Lionardo  was  ill-satisfied  with  his  sojourn 
at  Rome.  He  had  long  been  accustomed  to  hold  the  first 
rank  as  an  artist  wherever  he  resided ;  whereas  at  Rome  he 
found  himself  only  one  among  many  who,  if  they  acknowl- 
edged his  greatness,  affected  to  consider  his  day  as  past. 
He  was  conscious  that  many  of  the  improvements  in  the 
arts  which  were  now  brought  into  use,  and  which  enabled 
the  painters  of  the  day  to  produce  such  extraordinary  effects, 
were  invented  or  introduced  by  himself.  If  he  could  no 
longer  assert  that  measureless  superiority  over  all  others 
which  he  had  done  in  his  younger  days,  it  was  because  he 
himself  had  opened  to  them  new  paths  to  excellence.  The 
arrival  of  his  old  competitor  Michael  Angelo,  and  some 
slight  on  the  part  of  Leo  X.,  who  was  annoyed  by  his  spec- 
11* 


250  MBS.   JAMESON. 

ulative  and  dilatory  habits  in  executing  the  works  intrusted 
to  him,  all  added  to  his  irritation  and  disgust.  He  left 
Rome,  and  set  out  for  Pavia,  where  the  French  king  Fran- 
cis I.  then  held  his  court.  He  was  received  by  the  young 
monarch  with  every  mark  of  respect,  loaded  with  favors, 
and  a  pension  of  seven  hundred  gold  crowns  settled  on  him 
for  life.  At  the  famous  conference  between  Francis  I.  and 
Leo  X.  at  Bologna,  Lionardo  attended  his  new  patron,  and 
was  of  essential  service  to  him  on  that  occasion.  In  the  fol- 
lowing year,  1516,  he  returned  with  Francis  I.  to  France, 
and  was  attached  to  the  French  court  as  principal  painter. 
It  appears,  however,  that  during  his  residence  in  France  he 
did  not  paint  a  single  picture.  His  health  had  begun  to 
decline  from  the  time  he  left  Italy ;  and,  feeling  his  end 
approach,  he  prepared  himself  for  it  by  religious  meditation, 
by  acts  of  charity,  and  by  a  most  conscientious  distribution 
by  will  of  all  his  worldly  possessions  to  his  relatives  and 
friends.  At  length,  after  protracted  suffering,  this  great 
and  most  extraordinary  man  died  at  Cloux,  near  Amboise, 
on  the  2d  of  May,  1519,  being  then  in  his  sixty-seventh 
year.  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  we  cannot  wholly  credit 
the  beautiful  story  of  his  dying  in  the  arms  of  Francis  L, 
who,  as  it  is  said,  had  come  to  visit  him  on  his  death-bed.  It 
would,  indeed,  have  been,  as  Fuseli  expressed  it,  "an  honor 
to  the  king,  by  which  Destiny  would  have  atoned  to  that 
monarch  for  his  future  disaster  at  Pavia,"  had  the  incident 
really  happened,  as  it  has  been  so  often  related  by  biogra- 
phers, celebrated  by  poets,  represented  with  a  just  pride  by 
painters,  and  willingly  believed  by  all  the  world ;  but  the 
well-authenticated  fact  that  the  court  was  on  that  day  at  St. 
Germain-en-Laye,  whence  the  royal  ordinances  are  dated, 
renders  the  story,  unhappily,  very  doubtful. 


TWO    OF   THE  OLD   MASTERS.  251 


TITIAN. 

TIZIANO  VECELLI  was  born  at  Cadore  in  the  Friuli,  a 
district  to  the  north  of  Venice,  where  the  ancient  family  of 
the  Vecelli  had  been  long  settled.  There  is  something  very 
amusing  and  characteristic  in  the  first  indication  of  his  love 
of  art ;  for  while  it  is  recorded  of  other  young  artists  that 
they  took  a  piece  of  charcoal  or  a  piece  of  slate  to  trace  the 
images  in  their  fancy,  we  are  told  that  the  infant  Titian, 
with  an  instinctive  feeling  prophetic  of  his  future  excellence 
as  a  colorist,  used  the  expressed  juice  of  certain  flowers  to 
paint  a  figure  of  a  Madonna.  When  he  was  a  boy  of  nine 
years  old  his  father,  Gregorio,  carried  him  to  Venice  and 
placed  him  under  the  tuition  of  Sebastian  Zuccato,  a 
painter  and  worker  in  mosaic.  He  left  this  school  for 
that  of  the  Bellini,  where  the  friendship  and  fellowship  of 
Giorgione  seems  early  to  have  awakened  his  mind  to  new 
ideas  of  art  and  color.  Albert  Durer,  who  was  at  Venice 
in  1494,  and  again  in  1507,  also  influenced  him.  At  this 
time,  when  Titian  and  Giorgione  were  youths  of  eighteen 
and  nineteen,  they  lived  and  worked  together.  It  has  been 
related  that  they  were  employed  in  painting  the  frescos  of 
the  Fondaco  dei  Tedeschi.  The  preference  being  given  to 
Titian's  performance,  which  represented  the  story  of  Judith, 
caused  such  a  jealousy  between  the  two  friends,  that  they 
ceased  to  reside  together ;  but  at  this  time,  and  for  some 
years  afterwards,  the  influence  of  Giorgione  on  the  mind 
and  the  style  of  Titian  was  such  that  it  became  diflicult  to 
distinguish  their  works ;  and  on  the  death  of  Giorgione, 
Titian  was  required  to  complete  his  unfinished  pictures. 
This  great  loss  to  Venice  and  the  world  left  him  in  the 
prime  of  youth  without  a  rival.  We  find  him  for  a  few 
years  chiefly  employed  in  decorating  the  palaces  of  the 
Venetian  nobles,  both  in  the  city  and  on  the  mainland. 


252  MRS.   JAMESON. 

The  first  of  his  historical  compositions  which  is  celebrated 
by  his  biographers  is  the  Presentation  of  the  Virgin  in 
the  Temple,  a  large  picture,  now  in  the  Academy  of 
Arts  at  Venice ;  and  the  first  portrait  recorded  is  that  of 
Catherine,  Queen  of  Cyprus,  of  which  numerous  repeti- 
tions and  copies  were  scattered  over  all  Italy.  There  is 
a  fine  original  in  the  Dresden  Gallery.  This  unhappy 
Catherine  Cornaro,  the  "daughter  of  St.  Mark,"  having 
been  forced  to  abdicate  her  crown  in  favor  of  the  Venetian 
state,  was  at  this  time  living  in  a  sort  of  honorable  captivity 
at  Venice.  She  had  been  a  widow  for  forty  years,  and  he 
has  represented  her  in  deep  mourning,  holding  a  rosary  in 
her  hand,  —  the  face  still  bearing  traces  of  that  beauty  for 
which  she  was  celebrated. 

It  appears  that  Titian  was  married  about  1512,  but  of  his 
wife  we  do  not  hear  anything  more.  It  is  said  that  her 
name  was  Lucia,  and  we  know  that  she  bore  him  three  chil- 
dren, —  two  sons,  and  a  daughter  called  Lavinia.  It  seems 
probable,  on  a  comparison  of  dates,  that  she  died  about  the 
year  1530. 

One  of  the  earliest  works  on  which  Titian  was  engaged 
was  the  decoration  of  the  convent  of  St.  Antony,  at  Padua, 
in  which  he  executed  a  series  of  frescos  from  the  life  of  St. 
Antony.  He  was  next  summoned  to  Ferrara  by  the  Duke 
Alphonso  I.,  and  was  employed  in  his  service  for  at  least 
two  years.  He  painted  for  this  prince  the  beautiful  picture 
of  Bacchus  and  Ariadne,  which  is  now  in  the  National  Gal- 
lery, and  which  represents  on  a  small  scale  an  epitome  of 
all  the  beauties  which  characterize  Titian,  in  the  rich,  pictur- 
esque, animated  composition,  in  the  ardor  of  Bacchus,  who 
flings  himself  from  his  car  to  pursue  Ariadne ;  the  dancing 
bacchanals,  the  frantic  grace  of  the  bacchante,  and  the  little 
joyous  satyr  in  front,  trailing  the  head  of  the  sacrifice.  He 
painted  for  the  same  prince  two  other  festive  subjects :  one 
in  which  a  nymph  and  two  men  are  dancing,  while  another 


TWO   OF  THE   OLD  MASTERS.  253 

nymph  lies  asleep  ;  and  a  third,  in  which  a  number  of  chil- 
dren and  cupids  are  sporting  round  a  statue  of  Venus. 
There  are  here  upwards  of  sixty  figures  in  every  variety 
of  altitude,  some  fluttering  in  the  air,  some  climbing  the 
fruit-trees,  some  shooting  arrows,  or  embracing  each  other. 
This  picture  is  known  as  the  Sacrifice  to  the  Goddess  of 
Fertility.  While  it  remained  in  Italy,  it  was  a  study  for 
the  first  painters,  —  for  Poussin,  the  Carracci,  Albano,  and 
Fiamingo  the  sculptor,  so  famous  for  his  models  of  children. 
At  Ferrara,  Titian  also  painted  the  portrait  of  the  first  wife 
of  Alphonso,  the  famous  and  infamous  Lucrezia  Borgia ; 
and  here  also  he  formed  a  friendship  with  the  poet  Ariosto, 
whose  portrait  he  painted. 

At  this  time  he  was  invited  to  Rome  by  Leo  X.,  for 
whom  Raphael,  then  in  the  zenith  of  his  powers,  was  execut- 
ing some  of  his  finest  works.  It  is  curious  to  speculate 
what  influence  these  two  distinguished  men  might  have 
exercised  on  each  other  had  they  met ;  but  it  was  not  so 
decreed.  Titian  was  strongly  attached  to  his  home  and  his 
friends  at  Venice ;  and  to  his  birthplace,  the  little  town  of 
Cadore.  he  paid  an  annual  summer  visit.  His  long  absence 
at  Ferrara  had  wearied  him  of  courts  and  princes ;  and, 
instead  of  going  to  Rome  to  swell  the  luxurious  state  of  Leo 
X.,  he  returned  to  Venice  and  remained  there  stationary  for 
the  next  few  years,  enriching  its  palaces  and  churches  with 
his  magnificent  works.  These  were  so  numerous  that  it 
would  be  in  vain  to  attempt  to  give  an  account  even  of  those 
considered  as  the  finest  among  them.  Two,  however,  must  be 
pointed  out  as  pre-eminent  in  beauty  and  celebrity.  First, 
the  Assumption  of  the  Virgin,  painted  for  the  Church  of 
Santa  Maria  de'  Frari,  and  now  in  the  Academy  of  the 
Fine  Arts  at  Venice,  and  well  known  from  the  magnificent 
engraving  of  Schiavone  —  the  Virgin  is  soaring  to  heaven 
amid  groups  of  angels,  while  the  apostles  gaze  upwards ; 
and,  secondly,  the  Death  of  St.  Peter  Martyr  when  attacked 


254  MRS.   JAMESON. 

by  assassins  at  the  entrance  of  a  wood ;  the  resignation  of 
the  prostrate  victim  and  the  ferocity  of  the  murderer,  the 
attendant  flying  "  in  the  agonies  of  cowardice,"  with  the  trees 
waving  their  distracted  boughs  amid  the  violence  of  the  tem- 
pest, have  rendered  this  picture  famous  as  a  piece  of  scenic 
poetry  as  well  as  of  dramatic  expression. 

The  next  event  of  Titian's  life  was  his  journey  to  Bologna 
in  1530.  In  that  year  the  Emperor  Charles  V.  and  Pope 
Clement  VII.  met  at  Bologna,  each  surrounded  by  a  bril- 
liant retinue  of  the  most  distinguished  soldiers,  statesmen, 
and  scholars,  of  Germany  and  Italy.  Through  the  influence 
of  his  friend  Aretino,  Titian  was  recommended  to  the  Car- 
dinal Ippolito  de'  Medici,  the  Pope's  nephew,  through  whose 
patronage  he  was  introduced  to  the  two  potentates  who  sat 
to  him.  One  of  the  portraits  of  Clement  VII.,  painted  at 
this  time,  is  now  in  the  Bridgewater  Gallery.  Charles  V. 
was  so  satisfied  with  his  portrait,  that  he  became  the  zealous 
friend  and  patron  of  the  painter.  It  is  not  precisely  known 
which  of  several  portraits  of  the  Emperor  painted  by  Titian 
was  the  one  executed  at  Bologna  on  this  memorable  occa- 
sion, but  it  is  supposed  to  be  that  which  represents  him  on 
horseback  charging  with  his  lance,  now  in  the  Royal  Gallery 
at  Madrid,  and  of  which  Mr.  Rogers  possesses  the  original 
study.  The  two  portraits  of  Ippolito  de'  Medici  in  the  Pitti 
Palace  and  the  Louvre  were  also  painted  at  this  period. 

After  a  sojourn  of  some  months  at  Bologna,  Titian  re- 
turned to  Venice  loaded  with  honors  and  rewards.  There 
was  no  potentate,  prince,  or  poet,  or  reigning  beauty,  who 
did  not  covet  the  honor  of  being  immortalized  by  his  pencil. 
He  had,  up  to  this  time,  managed  his  worldly  affairs  with 
great  economy ;  but  now  he  purchased  for  himself  a  house 
opposite  to  Murano,  and  lived  splendidly,  combining  with 
the  most  indefatigable  industry  the  liveliest  enjoyment  of 
existence  ;  his  favorite  companions  were  the  architect  San- 
sovino  and  the  witty  profligate  Pietro  Aretino.  Titian  has 


TWO   OF  THE   OLD   MASTERS.  255 

often  been  reproached  with  his  friendship  for  Aretino,  and 
nothing  can  be  said  in  his  excuse,  except  that  the  proudest 
princes  in  Europe  condescended  to  natter  and  caress  this 
unprincipled  literary  ruffian,  who  was  pleased  to  designate 
himself  as  the  u  friend  of  Titian,  and  the  scourge  of  princes." 
One  of  the  finest  of  Titian's  portraits  is  that  of  Aretino,  in 
the  Munich  Gallery. 

Thus  in  the  practice  of  his  art,  in  the  society  of  his 
friends,  and  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  pleasures  of  life,  did 
Titian  pass  several  years.  The  only  painter  of  his  time 
who  was  deemed  worthy  of  competing  with  him  was  Licinio 
Regillo,  better  known  as  Pordenone.  Between  Titian  and 
Pordenone  there  existed  not  merely  rivalry,  but  a  personal 
hatred,  so  bitter  that  Pordenone  affected  to  think  his  life  in 
danger,  and  when  at  Venice  painted  with  his  shield  and 
poniard  lying  beside  him.  As  long  as  Pordenone  lived, 
Titian  had  a  spur  to  exertion,  to  emulation.  All  the  other 
good  painters  of  the  time,  Palma,  Bonifazio,  Tintoretto, 
were  his  pupils  or  his  creatures ;  Pordenone  would  never 
owe  anything  to  him;  and  the  picture  called  the  St.  Jus- 
tina,  at  Vienna,  shows  that  he  could  equal  Titian  on  his  own 
ground. 

After  the  death  of  Pordenone  at  Ferrara,  in  1539,  Titian 
was  left  without  a  rival.  Everywhere  in  Italy  art  was  on 
the  decline :  Lionardo,  Raphael,  Correggio,  had  all  passed 
away.  Titian  himself,  at  the  age  of  sixty,  was  no  longer 
young,  but  he  still  retained  all  the  vigor  and  the  freshness 
of  youth  ;  neither  eye  nor  hand,  nor  creative  energy  of  mind 
had  failed  him  yet.  He  was  again  invited  to  Ferrara,  and 
painted  there  the  portrait  of  the  old  Pope  Paul  III.  He 
then  visited  Urbino,  where  he  painted  for  the  Duke  the  fa- 
mous Venus  which  hangs  in  the  Tribune  of  the  Florence  Gal- 
lery, and  many  other  pictures.  He  again,  by  order  of  Charles 
V.,  repaired  to  Bologna,  and  painted  the  Emperor,  standing, 
and  by  his  side  a  favorite  Irish  wolf-dog.  This  picture  was 


256  MRS.   JAMESON. 

given  by  Philip  IV.  to  Charles  I.  of  England,  but  after  his 
death  was  sold  into  Spain,  and  is  now  at  Madrid. 

Pope  Paul  III.  invited  him  to  Rome,  whither  he  repaired 
in  1548.  There  he  painted  that  wonderful  picture  of  the 
old  Pope  with  his  two  nephews,  the  Duke  Ottavio  and  Car- 
dinal Farnese,  which  is  now  at  Vienna.  The  head  of  the 
Pope  is  a  miracle  of  character  and  expression.  A  keen-vis- 
aged,  thin  little  man,  with  meagre  fingers  like  birds'  claws, 
and  an  eager  cunning  look,  riveting  the  gazer  like  the  eye  of 
a  snake,  —  nature  itself!  —  and  the  Pope  had  either  so  little 
or  so  much  vanity  as  to  be  perfectly  satisfied.  He  rewarded 
the  painter  munificently ;  he  even  offered  to  make  his  son 
Pomponio  Bishop  of  Ceneda,  which  Titian  had  the  good 
sense  to  refuse.  While  at  Rome  he  painted  several  pic- 
tures for  the  Farnese  family,  among  them  the  Venus  and 
Adonis,  of  which  a  repetition  is  in  the  National  Gallery, 
and  a  Danae  which  excited  the  admiration  of  Michael  An- 
gelo.  At  this  time  Titian  was  seventy-two. 

He  next,  by  command  of  Charles  V.,  repaired  to  Augs- 
burg, where  the  Emperor  held  his  court:  eighteen  years 
had  elapsed  since  he  first  sat  to  Titian,  and  he  was  now 
broken  by  the  cares  of  government,  —  far  older  at  fifty  than 
the  painter  at  seventy-two.  It  was  at  Augsburg  that  the 
incident  occurred  which  has  been  so  often  related:  Titian 
dropped  his  pencil,  and  Charles,  taking  it  up  and  presenting 
it,  replied  to  the  artist's  excuses  that  "  Titian  was  worthy  of 
being  served  by  Caesar."  This  pretty  anecdote  is  not  with- 
out its  parallel  in  modern  times.  When  Sir  Thomas  Law- 
rence was  painting  at  Aix-la-Chapelle,  as  he  stooped  to  place 
a  picture  on  his  easel,  the  Emperor  of  Russia  anticipated  him, 
and,  taking  it  up,  adjusted  it  himself;  but  we  do  not  hear 
that  he  made  any  speech  on  the  occasion.  When  at  Augs- 
burg, Titian  was  ennobled  and  created  a  count  of  the  em- 
pire, with  a  pension  of  two  hundred  gold  ducats,  and  his  son 
Pomponio  was  appointed  canon  of  the  cathedral  of  Milan. 


TWO   OF  THE   OLD   MASTERS.  257 

After  the  abdication  and  death  of  Charles  V.,  Titian  contin- 
ued in  great  favor  with  his  successor  Philip  II.,  for  whom 
he  painted  several  pictures.  It  is  not  true,  however,  that 
Titian  visited  Spain.  The  assertion  that  he  did  so  rests  on 
the  sole  authority  of  Palomino,  a  Spanish  writer  on  art,  and, 
though  wholly  unsupported  by  evidence,  has  been  copied 
from  one  book  into  another.  Later  researches  have  proved 
that  Titian  returned  from  Augsburg  to  Venice ;  and  an 
uninterrupted  series  of  letters  and  documents,  with  dates  of 
time  and  place,  remain  to  show  that,  with  the  exception  of 
this  visit  to  Augsburg  and  another  to  Vienna,  he  resided 
constantly  in  Italy,  and  principally  at  Venice,  from  1530  to 
his  death.  Notwithstanding  the  compliments  and  patronage 
and  nominal  rewards  he  received  from  the  Spanish  court, 
Titian  was  worse  off  under  Philip  II.  than  he  had  been 
under  Charles  V. :  his  pension  was  constantly  in  arrears ; 
the  payments  for  his  pictures  evaded  by  the  officials ;  and 
we  find  the  great  painter  constantly  presenting  petitions 
and  complaints  in  moving  terms,  which  always  obtained  gra- 
cious but  illusive  answers.  Philip  II.,  who  commanded  the 
riches  of  the  Indies,  was  for  many  years  a  debtor  to  Titian 
for  at  least  two  thousand  gold  crowns ;  and  his  accounts 
were  not  settled  at  the  time  of  his  death.  For  Queen 
Mary  of  England,  who  wished  to  patronize  one  favored  by 
her  husband,  Titian  painted  several  pictures,  some  of  which 
were  in  the  possession  of  Charles  I. ;  others  had  been  car- 
ried to  Spain  after  the  death  of  Mary,  and  are  now  in  the 
Royal  Gallery  at  Madrid. 

Besides  the  pictures  painted  by  command  for  royal  and 
noble  patrons,  Titian,  who  was  unceasingly  occupied,  had 
always  a  great  number  of  pictures  in  his  house  which  he 
presented  to  his  friends,  or  to  the  officers  and  attendants  of 
the  court,  as  a  means  of  procuring  their  favor.  There  is 
extant  a  letter  of  Aretino,  in  which  he  describes  the  scene 
which  took  place  when  the  Emperor  summoned  his  favorite 

Q 


258  MRS.  JAMESON. 

painter  to  attend  the  court  at  Augsburg.  "It  was,"  he 
says,  "the  most  flattering  testimony  to  his  excellence  to 
behold,  as  soon  as  it  was  known  that  the  divine  painter  was 
sent  for,  the  crowds  of  people  running  to  obtain,  if  possible, 
the  productions  of  his  art ;  and  how  they  endeavored  to 
purchase  the  pictures,  great  and  small,  and  everything  that 
was  in  the  house,  at  any  price ;  for  everybody  seems  assured 
that  his  august  majesty  will  so  treat  his  Apelles  that  he 
will  no  longer  condescend  to  exercise  his  pencil  except  to 
oblige  him." 

Years  passed  on,  and  seemed  to  have  no  power  to  quench 
the  ardor  of  this  wonderful  old  man.  He  was  eighty-one 
when  he  painted  the  Martyrdom  of  St.  Laurence,  one  of 
his  largest  and  grandest  compositions.  The  Magdalen,  the 
half-length  figure  with  uplifted  streaming  eyes,  which  he 
sent  to  Philip  II.,  was  executed  even  later ;  and  it  was  not 
till  he  was  approaching  his  ninetieth  year  that  he  showed 
in  his  works  symptoms  of  enfeebled  powers ;  and  then  it 
seemed  as  if  sorrow  rather  than  time  had  reached  him  and 
conquered  him  at  last.  The  death  of  many  friends,  the 
companions  of  his  convivial  hours,  left  him  "  alone  in  his 
glory."  He  found  in  his  beloved  art  the  only  refuge  from 
grief.  His  son  Pomponio  was  still  the  same  worthless 
profligate  in  age  that  he  had  been  in  youth.  His  son  Orazio 
attended  upon  him  with  truly  filial  duty  and  affection,  and 
under  his  father's  tuition  had  become  an  accomplished  artist ; 
but  as  they  always  worked  together,  and  on  the  same  can- 
vas, his  works  are  not  to  be  distinguished  from  his  father's. 
Titian  was  likewise  surrounded  by  painters  who,  without 
being  precisely  his  scholars,  had  assembled  from  every  part 
of  Europe  to  profit  by  his  instructions.  The  early  morning 
and  the  evening  hour  found  him  at  his  easel ;  or  lingering 
in  his  little  garden  (where  he  had  feasted  with  Aretino  and 
Sansovino,  and  Bembo  and  Ariosto,  and  "  the  most  gracious 
Virginia,"  and  "  the  most  beautiful  Violante  "),  and  gazing 


TWO   OF   THE   OLD   MASTERS.  259 

on  the  setting  sun,  with  a  thought  perhaps  of  his  own  long 
and  bright  career  fast  hastening  to  its  close ;  —  not  that  such 
anticipations  clouded  his  cheerful  spirit,  —  buoyant  to  the 
last!  In  1574,  when  he  was  in  his  ninety-seventh  year, 
Henry  III.  of  France  landed  at  Venice  on  his  way  from 
Poland,  and  was  magnificently  entertained  by  the  Republic. 
On  this  occasion  the  King  visited  Titian  at  his  own  house, 
attended  by  a  numerous  suite  of  princes  and  nobles.  Titian 
entertained  them  with  splendid  hospitality ;  and  when  the 
King  asked  the  price  of  some  pictures  which  pleased  him, 
he  presented  them  as  a  gift  to  his  Majesty,  and  every  one 
praised  his  easy  and  noble  manners  and  his  generous 
bearing. 

Two  years  more  passed  away,  and  the  hand  did  not  yet 
tremble  nor  was  the  eye  dim.  When  the  plague  broke 
out  in  Venice,  the  nature  of  the  distemper  was  at  first  mis- 
taken, and  the  most  common  precautions  neglected ;  the 
contagion  spread,  and  Titian  and  his  son  were  among  those 
who  perished.  Every  one  had  fled,  and  before  life  was 
extinct  some  ruffians  entered  his  chamber  and  carried  off, 
before  his  eyes,  his  money,  jewels,  and  some  of  his  pictures. 
His  death  took  place  on  the  9th  of  September,  1575.  A 
law  had  been  made  during  the  plague  that  none  should  be 
buried  in  the  churches,  but  that  all  the  dead  bodies  should 
be  carried  beyond  the  precincts  of  the  city ;  an  exception, 
however,  even  in  that  hour  of  terror  and  anguish,  was  made 
in  favor  of  Titian.  His  remains  were  borne  with  honor  to 
the  tomb,  and  deposited  in  the  Church  of  Santa  Maria  do' 
Frari,  for  which  he  had  painted  his  famous  Assumption. 
There  he  lies  beneath  a  plain  black  marble  slab,  on  which 
is  simply  inscribed, 

"TIZIANO  VECELLIO." 

In  the  year  1794  the  citizens  of  Venice  resolved  to  erect 
a  noble  and  befitting  monument  to  his  memory.  Canova 


260  MRS.   JAMESON. 

made  the  design  ;  —  but  the  troubles  which  intervened,  and 
the  extinction  of  the  Republic,  prevented  the  execution  of 
this  project.  Canova's  magnificent  model  was  appropriated 
to  another  purpose,  and  now  forms  the  cenotaph  of  the 
Archduchess  Christina,  in  the  Church  of  the  Augustines 
at  Vienna. 

This  was  the  life  and  death  of  the  famous  Titian.  He 
was  pre-eminently  the  painter  of  nature  ;  but  to  him  nature 
was  clothed  in  a  perpetual  garb  of  beauty,  or  rather  to  him 
nature  and  beauty  were  one.  In  historical  compositions 
and  sacred  subjects  he  has  been  rivalled  and  surpassed, 
but  as  a  portrait  painter  never ;  and  his  portraits  of  cele- 
brated persons  have  at  once  the  truth  and  the  dignity  of 
history. 


THE  POET'S   HEART 


Br  FREDERICK  TEKNYSON. 


WHEN  the  Poet's  heart  is  dead, 
That  with  fragrance,  light,  and  sound, 
Like  a  Summer-day  was  fed, 

Where,  0,  where  shall  it  be  found,  — 
In  Sea,  or  Air,  or  underground  ? 


II. 

It  shall  be  a  sunny  place ; 
An  urn  of  odors  ;  a  still  well, 

Upon  whose  undisturbed  face 

The  lights  of  Heaven  shall  love  to  dwell, 
And  its  far  depths  make  visible. 

m. 

It  shall  be  a  crimson  flower 

That  in  Fairyland  hath  thriven  ; 

For  dew  a  gentle  Sprite  shall  pour 
Tears  of  Angels  down  from  Heaven, 
And  hush  the  winds  at  morn  and  even. 


262  FREDERICK  TENNYSON. 

IV. 
It  shall  be  on  some  fair  morn 

A  swift  and  many-voiced  wind, 
Singing  down  the  skies  of  June, 
And  with  its  breath  and  gladsome  tune 

Send  joy  into  the  heart  and  mind. 

v. 
It  shall  be  a  fountain  springing, 

Far  up  into  the  happy  light, 
With  a  silver  carol  ringing, 
With  a  magic  motion  flinging 

Its  jocund  waters,  starry-bright. 

VI. 

It  shall  be  a  tiny  thing 

Whose  breath  is  in  it  for  a  day, 

To  fold  at  Eve  its  weary  wing, 
And  at  the  dewfall  die  away 
On  some  pure  air,  or  golden  ray, 

VII. 

Falling  in  a  violet-bloom ; 

Tombed  in  a  sphere  of  pearly  rain ; 

Its  blissful  ghost  a  wild  perfume 
To  come  forth  with  the  Morn  again, 
And  wander  through  an  infant's  brain ; 

VIII. 

And  the  pictures  it  should  set 
In  that  temple  of  Delight 

Would  make  the  tearless  cherub  fret 
With  its  first  longing  for  a  sight 
Of  things  beyond  the  Day  and  Night. 


THE  POET'S  HEART.  263 

IX. 

But  one  moment  of  its  span 

Should  thicker  grow  with  blissful  things 
Than  any  days  of  mortal  Man, 
Or  his  years  of  Sorrow  can, 

Though  beggars  should  be  crowned  kings. 

x. 

It  shall  be  a  tuneful  voice 
Falling  on  a  Lover's  ear, 

Enough  to  make  his  heart  rejoice 
For  evermore,  or  far,  or  near, 
In  dreams  that  swallow  hope  and  fear. 

XI. 

It  shall  be  a  chord  divine 

By  Mercy  out  of  Heaven  hung  forth, 

Along  whose  trembling,  airy  line 
A  dying  Saint  shall  hear  on  earth 
Triumphant  songs,  and  harped  mirth ! 

XII. 

It  shall  be  a  wave  forlorn 

That  o  'er  the  vast  and  fearful  Sea 

In  troubled  pride  and  beauty  borne 
From  winged  storms  shall  vainly  flee 
And  seek  for  rest  where  none  shall  be. 

XIII. 

It  shall  be  a  mountain  Tree, 

Thro'  whose  great  arms  the  winds  shall  blow 
Louder  than  the  roaring  Sea, 

And  toss  its  plumed  head  to  and  fro ; 

But  a  thousand  flowers  shall  live  below. 


264  FREDERICK  TENNYSON. 

XIV. 

It  shall  be  a  kingly  Star 

That  o'er  a  thousand  Suns  shall  burn 
Where  the  high  Sabaoth  are, 
And  round  its  glory  flung  afar 

A  mighty  host  shall  swiftly  turn. 

XV. 

All  things  of  beauty  it  shall  be  — 

All  things  of  power  —  of  joy  —  of  fear ; 
But  out  of  bliss  and  agony 
It  shall  come  forth  more  pure  and  free, 
And  sing  a  song  more  sweet  to  hear. 

XVI. 

For  methinks,  when  it  hath  passed 

Thro'  wondrous  Nature's  world-wide  reign, 

Perchance  it  may  come  home  at  last, 
And  the  old  Earth  may  hear  again 
Its  lofty  voice  of  Joy  and  Pain. 


Gloria  in  Ezcelsis 


CHARACTER  OF  FRA  ANGELICO. 


BY   GIOKGIO   VASARL 


FRA  ANGELICO  was  a  man  of  the  utmost  simplicity 
of  intention,  and  was  most  holy  in  every  act  of  his 
life.  It  is  related  of  him,  and  it  is  a  good  evidence  of  his 
simple  earnestness  of  purpose,  that  being  one  morning  invited 
to  breakfeast  by  Pope  Nicholas  V.,  he  had  scruples  of  con- 
science as  to  eating  meat  without  the  permission  of  his  prior, 
not  considering  that  the  authority  of  the  pontiff  was  super- 
seding that  of  the  prior.  He  disregarded  all  earthly  advan- 
tages ;  and,  living  in  pure  holiness,  was  as  much  the  friend 
of  the  poor  in  life  as  I  believe  his  soul  now  is  in  heaven. 
He  labored  continually  at  his  paintings,  but  would  do  noth- 
ing that  was  not  connected  with  things  holy.  He  might 
have  been  rich,  but  for  riches  he  took  no  care  ;  on  the  con- 
trary he  was  accustomed  to  say,  that  the  only  true  riches 
was  contentment  with  little.  He  might  have  commanded 
many,  but  would  not  do  so,  declaring  that  there  was  less 
fatigue  and  less  danger  of  error  in  obeying  others,  than  in 
commanding  others.  It  was  at  his  option  to  hold  places  of 
dignity  in  the  brotherhood  of  his  order,  and  also  in  the 
world ;  but  he  regarded  them  not,  affirming  that  he  sought 
no  dignity  and  took  no  care  but  that  of  escaping  hell  and 
drawing  near  to  Paradise.  And  of  a  truth  what  dignity 
can  be  compared  to  that  which  should  be  most  coveted  by 
all  Churchmen,  nay,  by  every  man  living,  that,  namely, 
12 


266  GIORGIO    VASARI. 

which  is  found  in  God  alone,  and  in  a  life  of  virtuous 
labor  ? 

Fra  Angelico  was  kindly  to  all,  and  moderate  in  all  his 
habits,  living  temperately,  and  holding  himself  entirely  apart 
from  the  snares  of  the  world.  He  used  frequently  to  say, 
that  he  who  practised  the  art  of  painting  had  need  of  quiet, 
and  should  live  without  cares  or  anxious  thoughts  ;  adding, 
that  he  who  would  do  the  work  of  Christ  should  perpetually 
remain  with  Christ.  He  was  never  seen  to  display  anger 
among  the  brethren  of  his  order ;  a  thing  which  appears  to 
me  most  extraordinary,  nay,  almost  incredible ;  if  he  admon- 
ished his  friends,  it  was  with  gentleness  and  a  quiet  smile  ; 
and  to  those  who  sought  his  works,  he  would  reply  with  the 
utmost  cordiality,  that  they  had  but  to  obtain  the  assent  of 
the  prior,  when  he  would  assuredly  not  fail  to  do  what  they 
desired.  In  fine,  this  never  sufficiently  to  be  lauded  father 
was  most  humble,  modest,  and  excellent  in  all  his  words 
and  works ;  in  his  painting  he  gave  evidence  of  piety  and 
devotion,  as  well  as  of  ability,  and  the  saints  that  he  painted 
have  more  of  the  air  and  expression  of  sanctity  than  have 
those  of  any  other  master. 

It  was  the  custom  of  Fra  Angelico  to  abstain  from  re- 
touching or  improving  any  painting  once  finished.  He 
altered  nothing,  but  left  all  as  it  was  done  the  first  time, 
believing,  as  he  said,  that  such  was  the  will  of  God.  It  is 
also  affirmed  that  he  would  never  take  the  pencil  in  hand 
until  he  had  first  offered  a  prayer.  He  is  said  never  to 
have  painted  a  Crucifix  without  tears  streaming  from  his 
eyes,  and  in  the  countenances  and  attitudes  of  his  figures  it 
is  easy  to  perceive  proof  of  his  sincerity,  his  goodness,  and 
the  depth  of  his  devotion  to  the  religion  of  Christ. 

He  died  in  1455,  at  the  age  of  sixty-eight. 


SONGS. 


BY   WILLIAM   BLAKE. 


I  GIVE  you  the  end  of  a  golden  string  • 

Only  wind  it  into  a  ball, 
It  will  lead  you  in  at  Heaven's  gate, 

Built  in  Jerusalem  wall. 


I. 
MY    SILKS    AND    FINE    ARRAY: 

MY  silks  and  fine  array, 
My  smiles  and  languished  air, 
By  love  are  driven  away. 

And  mournful,  lean  Despair 
Brings  me  yew  to  deck  my  grave : 
Such  end  true  lovers  have. 

His  face  is  fair  as  heaven 

When  springing  buds  unfold ; 

0,  why  to  him  was  't  given, 
Whose  heart  is  wintry  cold  ? 

His  breast  is  Love's  all-worshipped  tomb 

Where  all  love's  pilgrims  come. 

Bring  me  an  axe  and  spade, 
Bring  me  a  winding-sheet ; 


268  WILLIAM   BLAKE. 

When  I  my  grave  have  made, 

Let  winds  and  tempests  beat : 
Then  down  I  '11  lie,  as  cold  as  clay. 
True  love  doth  pass  away  ! 


n. 

THE    FIRST    SONG    OF  INNOCENCE, 

PIPING  down  the  valleys  wild, 
Piping  songs  of  pleasant  glee, 

On  a  cloud  I  saw  a  child, 

And  he,  laughing,  said  to  me : 

"  Pipe  a  song  about  a  Lamb ! " 
So  I  piped  with  merry  cheer 

"  Piper,  pipe  that  song  again  "  ; 
So  I  piped :  he  wept  to  hear 

"  Drop  thy  pipe,  thy  happy  pipe  : 
Sing  thy  songs  of  happy  cheer !  " 

So  I  sang  the  same  again, 

While  he  wept  with  joy  to  hear. 

"  Piper,  sit  thee  down  and  write 
In  a  book,  that  all  may  read." 

So  he  vanished  from  my  sight, 
And  I  plucked  a  hollow  reed, 

And  I  made  a  rural  pen, 
And  I  stained  the  water  clear, 

And  I  wrote  my  happy  songs 
Every  child  may  joy  to  hear. 


SONGS.  269 

ni. 

THE    LITTLE    BLACK    BOY. 

MY  mother  bore  me  in  the  southern  wild, 
And  I  am  black,  but  O,  my  soul  is  white. 

White  as  an  angel  is  the  English  child, 
But  I  am  black,  as  if  bereaved  of  light. 

My  mother  taught  me  underneath  a  tree, 
And,  sitting  down  before  the  heat  of  day, 

She  took  me  on  her  lap  and  kissed  me, 
And,  pointing  to  the  East,  began  to  say : 

"  Look  on  the  rising  sun  :  there  God  does  live, 
And  gives  this  light,  and  gives  His  heat  away ; 

And  flowers  and  trees  and  beasts  and  men  receive 
Comfort  in  morning,  joy  in  the  noonday. 

"  And  we  are  put  on  earth  a  little  space, 

That  we  may  learn  to  bear  the  beams  of  love ; 

And  these  black  bodies  and  this  sunburnt  face 
Are  but  a  cloud,  and  like  a  shady  grove. 

"  For  when  our  souls  have  learned  the  heat  to  bear, 
The  cloud  will  vanish,  we  shall  hear  His  voice, 

Saying, '  Come  out  from  the  grove,  my  love  and  care, 
And  round  my  golden  tent  like  lambs  rejoice.' " 

Thus  did  my  mother  say,  and  kissed  me, 

And  thus  I  say  to  little  English  boy : 
When  I  from  black,  and  he  from  white  cloud  free, 

And  round  the  tent  of  God  like  lambs  we  joy ; 


270  WILLIAM  BLAKE. 

I  '11  shade  him  from  the  heat  till  he  can  bear 
To  lean  in  joy  upon  our  Father's  knee ; 

And  then  I  '11  stand  and  stroke  his  silver  hair, 
And  be  like  him,  and  he  will  then  love  me. 


IV. 

THE    CHIMNEY-SWEEPER. 

WHEN  my  mother  died  I  was  very  young, 
And  my  father  sold  me  while  yet  my  tongue 
Could  scarcely  cry,  "  Weep !  weep !  weep !  weep ! " 
So  your  chimneys  I  sweep  and  in  soot  I  sleep. 

There  }B  little  Tom  Dacre,  who  cried  when  his  head, 
That  curled  like  a  lamb's  back,  was  shaved ;  so  I  said, 
"  Hush,  Tom !  never  mind  it,  for  when  your  head 's  bare, 
You  know  that  the  soot  cannot  spoil  your  white  hair." 

And  so  he  was  quiet,  and  that  very  night, 

As  Tom  was  a-sleeping,  he  had  such  a  sight ; 

That  thousands  of  sweepers,  Dick,  Joe,  Ned,  and  Jack, 

Were  all  of  them  locked  up  in  coffins  of  black. 

And  by  came  an  angel,  who  had  a  bright  key, 
And  he  opened  the  coffins,  and  set  them  all  free ; 
Then  down  a  green  plain,  leaping,  laughing  they  run, 
And  wash  in  a  river,  and  shine  in  the  sun. 

Then  naked  and  white,  all  their  bags  left  behind, 
They  rise  upon  clouds,  and  sport  in  the  wind ; 
And  the  angel  told  Tom,  if  he  'd  be  a  good  boy, 
He  'd  have  God  for  his  father,  and  never  want  joy. 


SONGS.  271 

And  so  Tom  awoke,  and  we  rose  in  the  dark, 
And  got  with  our  bags  and  our  brushes  to  work : 
Though  the  morning  was  cold,  Tom  was  happy  and  warm : 
So,  if  all  do  their  duty,  they  need  not  fear  harm. 


V. 

THE    DIVINE    IMAGE. 

To  mercy,  pity,  peace,  and  love, 
All  pray  in  their  distress, 

And  to  these  virtues  of  delight 
Return  their  thankfulness. 

For  mercy,  pity,  peace,  and  love, 
Is  God  our  Father  dear  ; 

And  mercy,  pity,  peace,  and  love, 
Is  man,  His  child  and  care. 

For  Mercy  has  a  human  heart ; 

Pity,  a  human  face  ; 
And  Love,  the  human  form  divine ; 

And  Peace,  the  human  dress. 

Then  every  man,  of  every  clime, 
That  prays  in  his  distress, 

Prays  to  the  human  form  divine : 
Love,  Mercy,  Pity,  Peace. 

And  all  must  love  the  human  form, 
In  heathen,  Turk,  or  Jew ; 

Where  mercy,  love,  and  pity  dwell, 
There  God  is  dwelling  too. 


WILLIAM   BLAKE. 

VI. 

ON   ANOTHER'S    SORROW. 

CAN  I  see  another's  woe, 
And  not  be  in  sorrow  too  ? 
Can  I  see  another's  grief, 
And  not  seek  for  kind  relief? 

Can  I  see  a  falling  tear, 
And  not  feel  my  sorrow's  share  ? 
Can  a  father  see  his  child 
Weep,  nor  be  with  sorrow  filled  ? 

Can  a  mother  sit  and  hear 
An  infant  groan,  an  infant  fear  ? 
No !  no !  never  can  it  be  ! 
Never,  never  can  it  be ! 

And  can  He,  who  smiles  on  all, 
Hear  the  wren,  with  sorrows  small, 
Hear  the  small  bird's  grief  and  care, 
Hear  the  woes  that  infants  bear  ? 

And  not  sit  beside  the  nest, 
Pouring  Pity  in  their  breast  ? 
And  not  sit  the  cradle  near, 
Weeping  tear  on  infant's  tear  ? 

And  not  sit  both  night  and  day, 
Wiping  all  our  tears  away  ? 
O,  no !  never  can  it  be  ! 
Never,  never  can  it  be ! 


SONGS.  273 


He  doth  give  his  joy  to  all : 
He  becomes  an  infant  small, 
He  becomes  a  man  of  woe, 
He  doth  feel  the  sorrow  too. 

Think  not  thou  canst  sigh  a  sigh, 
And  thy  Maker  is  not  by : 
Think  not  thou  canst  weep  a  tear, 
And  thy  Maker  is  not  near. 

O,  He  gives  to  us  his  joy, 
That  our  griefs  He  may  destroy: 
Till  our  grief  is  fled  and  gone, 
He  doth  sit  by  us  and  moan. 


vn. 

THE    TIGER. 

TIGER,  Tiger,  burning  bright 
In  the  forests  of  the  night, 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Framed  thy  fearful  symmetry  ? 

In  what  distant  deeps  or  skies 
Burned  that  fire  within  thine  eyes  ? 
On  what  wings  dared  he  aspire? 
"What  the  hand  dared  seize  the  fire  ? 

And  what  shoulder,  and  what  art, 
Could  twist  the  sinews  of  thy  heart? 
When  thy  heart  began  to  beat, 
What  dread  hand  formed  thy  dread  feet  ? 
12*  ii 


274  WILLIAM  BLAKE. 

What  the  hammer,  what  the  chain, 
Knit  thy  strength  and  forged  thy  brain  ? 
What  the  anvil  ?     What  dread  grasp 
Dared  thy  deadly  terrors  clasp  ? 

When  the  stars  threw  down  their  spears, 
And  watered  heaven  with  their  tears, 
Did  he  smile  his  work  to  see  ? 
Did  He  who  made  the  lamb  make  thee  ? 


VIII. 
A  LITTLE  BOY  LOST. 

"  NOUGHT  loves  another  as  itself, 

Nor  venerates  another  so, 
Nor  is  it  possible  to  thought 

A  greater  than  itself  to  know. 

"  And,  Father,  how  can  I  love  you 
Or  any  of  my  brothers  more  ? 

I  love  you  like  the  little  bird 

That  picks  up  crumbs  around  the  door." 

The  Priest  sat  by  and  heard  the  child ; 

In  trembling  zeal  he  seized  his  hair, 
He  led  him  by  his  little  coat, 

And  all  admired  the  priestly  care. 

And  standing  on  the  altar  high, 

"  Lo !  what  a  fiend  is  here,"  said  he, 

u  One  who  sets  reason  up  for  judge 
Of  our  most  holy  Mystery." 


SONGS.  275 

The  weeping  child  could  not  be  heard, 
The  weeping  parents  wept  in  vain, 

They  stripped  him  to  his  little  shirt, 
And  bound  him  in  an  iron  chain, 

And  burned  him  in  a  holy  place 

Where  many  had  been  burned  before ; 

The  weeping  parents  wept  in  vain. 

Are  such  things  done  on  Albion's  shore  ? 


IX 

SMILE    AND   FROWN. 

THERE  is  a  smile  of  Love, 

And  there  is  a  smile  of  Deceit, 

And  there  is  a  smile  of  smiles 
In  which  the  two  smiles  meet. 

And  there  is  a  frown  of  Hate, 
And  there  is  a  frown  of  Disdain, 

And  there  is  a  frown  of  frowns 

Which  you  strive  to  forget  in  vain  ; 

For  it  sticks  in  the  heart's  deep  core, 
And  it  sticks  in  the  deep  backbone. 

And  no  smile  ever  was  smiled 
But  only  one  smile  alone. 

(And  betwixt  the  cradle  and  grave 
It  only  once  smiled  can  be,) 

That  when  it  once  is  smiled 
There  's  an  end  to  all  misery. 


276  WILLIAM    BLAKE 

X. 

OPPORTUNITY. 

HE  who  bends  to  himself  a  joy 
Does  the  winged  life  destroy ; 
But  he  who  kisses  the  joy  as  it  flies 
Lives  in  eternity's  sunrise. 


UPON  GROWING  OLD. 

BY  J.   HAIN  FRISWELL. 

JOHN  FOSTER,  (he  who  sprung  into  celebrity  from 
one  essay,  Popular  Ignorance,)  had  a  diseased  feeling 
against  growing  old,  which  seems  to  us  to  be  very  prevalent. 
He  was  sorry  to  lose  every  parting  hour.  "  I  have  seen  a 
fearful  sight  to-day,"  he  would  say,  —  "I  have  seen  a  butter- 
cup." To  others  the  sight  would  only  give  visions  of  the 
coming  spring  and  future  summer;  to  him  it  told  of  the 
past  year,  the  last  Christmas,  the  days  which  would  never 
come  again,  —  the  so  many  days  nearer  the  grave.  Thack- 
eray continually  expressed  the  same  feeling.  He  reverts 
to  the  merry  old  time  when  George  the  Third  was  king. 
He  looks  back  with  a  regretful  mind  to  his  own  youth. 
The  black  Care  constantly  rides  behind  his  chariot.  "  Ah, 
my  friends,"  he  says,  "  how  beautiful  was  youth !  We  are 
growing  old.  Spring-time  and  summer  are  past.  We  near 
the  winter  of  our  days.  We  shall  never  feel  as  we  have 
felt.  We  approach  the  inevitable  grave."  Few  men,  in- 
deed, know  how  to  grow  old  gracefully  as  Madame  de  Stael 
very  truly  observed.  There  is  an  unmanly  sadness  at  leav- 
ing off  the  old  follies  and  the  old  games.  We  all  hate  fo- 
geyism.  Dr.  Johnson,  great  and  good  as  he  was,  had  a  touch 
of  this  regret,  and  we  may  pardon  him  for  the  feeling.  A 
youth  spent  in  poverty  and  neglect,  a  manhood  consumed 
in  unceasing  struggle,  are  not  preparatives  to  growing  old  in 


278  J.  HAIN  FRISWELL. 

peace.  We  fancy  that,  after  a  stormy  morning  and  a  lower- 
ing day,  the  evening  should  have  a  sunset  glow,  and,  when 
the  night  sets  in,  look  back  with  regret  at  the  "  gusty,  bab- 
bling, and  remorseless  day " ;  but  if  we  do  so,  we  miss  the 
supporting  faith  of  the  Christian  and  the  manly  cheerful- 
ness of  the  heathen.  To  grow  old  is  quite  natural ;  being 
natural,  it  is  beautiful ;  and  if  we  grumble  at  it,  we  miss 
the  lesson,  and  lose  all  the  beauty. 

Half  of  our  life  is  spent  in  vain  regrets.  When  we  are 
boys  we  ardently  wish  to  be  men ;  when  men  we  wish  as 
ardently  to  be  boys.  We  sing  sad  songs  of  the  lapse  of 
time.  We  talk  of  "  auld  lang  syne,"  of  the  days  when  we 
were  young,  of  gathering  shells  on  the  sea-shore  and  throw- 
ing them  carelessly  away.  We  never  cease  to  be  senti- 
mental upon  past  youth  and  lost  manhood  and  beauty.  Yet 
there  are  no  regrets  so  false,  and  few  half  so  silly.  Per- 
haps the  saddest  sight  in  the  world  is  to  see  an  old  lady, 
wrinkled  and  withered,  dressing,  talking,  and  acting  like  a 
very  young  one,  and  forgetting  all  the  time,  as  she  clings  to 
the  feeble  remnant  of  the  past,  that  there  is  no  sham  so 
transparent  as  her  own,  and  that  people,  instead  of  feeling 
with  her,  are  laughing  at  her.  Old  boys  disguise  their  foi- 
bles a  little  better ;  but  they  are  equally  ridiculous.  The 
feeble  protests  which  they  make  against  the  flying  chariot 
of  Time  are  equally  futile.  The  great  Mower  enters  the 
field,  and  all  must  come  down.  To  stay  him  would  be  im- 
possible. We  might  as  well  try  with  a  finger  to  stop 
Ixion's  wheel,  or  to  dam  up  the  current  of  the  Thames  with 
a  child's  foot. 

Since  the  matter  is  inevitable,  we  may  as  well  sit  down 
and  reason  it  out.  Is  it  so  dreadful  to  grow  old  ?  Does  old 
age  need  its  apologies  and  its  defenders  ?  Is  it  a  benefit  or 
a  calamity  ?  Why  should  it  be  odious  and  ridiculous  ?  An 
old  tree  is  picturesque,  an  old  castle  venerable,  an  old  cathe- 
dral inspires  awe,  —  why  should  man  be  worse  than  his 
works  ? 


UPON  GROWING   OLD.  279 

Let  us,  in  the  first  place,  see  what  youth  is.  Is  it  so 
blessed  and  happy  and  flourishing  as  it  seems  to  us  ? 
Schoolboys  do  not  think  so.  They  always  wish  to  be 
older.  You  cannot  insult  one  of  them  more  than  by  tell- 
ing him  that  he  is  a  year  or  two  younger  than  he  is.  He 
fires  up  at  once :  "  Twelve,  did  you  say,  sir  ?  No,  I  'm 
fourteen."  But  men  and  women  who  have  reached  twenty- 
eight  do  not  thus  add  to  their  years.  Amongst  schoolboys, 
notwithstanding  the  general  tenor  of  those  romancists  who 
see  that  everything  young  bears  a  rose-colored  blush,  mis- 
ery is  prevalent  enough.  Emerson,  Coleridge,  Wordsworth, 
were  each  and  all  unhappy  boys.  They  all  had  their  re- 
buffs, and  bitter,  bitter  troubles ;  all  the  more  bitter  because 
their  sensitiveness  was  so  acute.  Suicide  is  not  unknown 
amongst  the  young ;  fears  prey  upon  them  and  terrify  them  ; 
ignorances  and  follies  surround  them.  Arriving  at  manhood, 
we  are  little  better  off.  If  we  are  poor,  we  mark  tbe  differ- 
ence between  the  rich  and  us ;  we  see  position  gains  all  the 
day.  If  we  are  as  clever  as  Hamlet,  we  grow  just  as  philo- 
sophically disappointed.  If  we  love,  we  can  only  be  sure  of 
a  brief  pleasure,  —  an  April  day.  Love  has  its  bitterness. 
"  It  is,"  says  Ovid,  an  adept  in  the  matter,  "  full  of  anxious 
fear."  We  fret  and  fume  at  the  authority  of  the  wise 
heads ;  we  have  an  intense  idea  of  our  own  talent.  We 
believe  calves  of  our  own  age  to  be  as  big  and  as  valuable 
as  full-grown  bulls ;  we  envy  whilst  we  jest  at  the  old. 
We  cry,  with  the  puffed-up  hero  of  the  Patricians  Daugh- 
ter — 

"  It  may  be  by  the  calendar  of  years 
You  are  the  elder  man  ;  but 't  is  the  sun 
Of  knowledge  on  the  mind's  dial  shining  bright, 
And  chronicling  deeds  and  thoughts,  that  makes  true  time." 

And  yet  life  is  withal  very  unhappy,  whether  we  live 
amongst  the  grumbling  captains  of  the  clubs,  who  are  ever 
seeking  and  not  finding  promotion;  amongst  ths  strug- 


280  J.  HAIN  FRISWELL. 

gling  authors  and  rising  artists  who  never  rise ;  or  among 
the  young  men  who  are  full  of  riches,  titles,  places,  and 
honor,  who  have  every  wish  fulfilled,  and  are  miserable 
because  they  have  nothing  to  wish  for.  Thus  the  young 
Romans  killed  themselves  after  the  death  of  their  emperor, 
not  for  grief,  not  for  affection,  not  even  for  the  fashion  of 
suicide,  which  grew  afterwards  prevalent  enough,  but  from 
the  simple  weariness  of  doing  everything  over  and  over 
again.  Old  age  has  passed  such  stages  as  these,  landed  on 
a  safer  shore,  and  matriculated  in  a  higher  college,  in  a 
purer  air.  We  do  not  sigh  for  impossibilities ;  we  cry 
not  — 

"  Bring  these  anew,  and  set  me  once  again 

In  the  delusion  of  life's  infancy; 
I  was  not  happy,  but  I  knew  not  then 

That  happy  I  was  never  doomed  to  be." 

We  know  that  we  are  not  happy.  We  know  that  life 
perhaps  was  not  given  us  to  be  continuously  comfortable 
and  happy.  We  have  been  behind  the  scenes,  and  know 
all  the  illusions  ;  but  when  we  are  old  we  are  far  too  wise  to 
throw  life  away  for  mere  ennui.  With  Dandolo,  refusing  a 
crown  at  ninety-six,  winning  battles  at  ninety-four;  with 
Wellington,  planning  and  superintending  fortifications  at 
eighty ;  with  Bacon  and  Humboldt,  students  to  the  last 
gasp ;  with  wise  old  Montaigne,  shrewd  in  his  gray-beard 
wisdom  and  loving  life,  even  in  the  midst  of  his  fits  of  gout 
and  colic,  —  Age  knows  far  too  much  to  act  like  a  sulky 
child.  It  knows  too  well  the  results  and  the  value  of 
things  to  care  about  them ;  that  the  ache  will  subside,  the 
pain  be  lulled,  the  estate  we  coveted  be  worth  little ;  the 
titles,  ribbons,  gewgaws,  honors,  be  all  more  or  less  worth- 
less. "  Who  has  honor  ?  He  that  died  o'  Wednesday  ! " 
Such  a  one  passed  us  in  the  race,  and  gained  it  but  to  fall. 
We  are  still  up  and  doing ;  we  may  be  frosty  and  shrewd, 
but  kindly.  We  can  wish  all  men  well ;  like  them,  too,  so 


UPON   GROWING   OLD.  281 

far  as  they  may  be  liked,  and  smile  at  the  fuss,  bother,  hurry, 
and  turmoil,  which  they  make  about  matters  which  to  us  are 
worthless  dross.  The  greatest  prize  in  the  whole  market  — 
in  any  and  in  every  market  —  success,  is  to  the  old  man 
nothing.  He  little  cares  who  is  up  and  who  is  down ;  the 
present  he  lives  in  and  delights  in.  Thus,  in  one  of  those 
admirable  comedies  in  which  Robson  acted,  we  find  the  son 
a  wanderer,  the  mother's  heart  nearly  broken,  the  father 
torn  and  broken  by  a  suspicion  of  his  son's  dishonesty,  but 
the  grandfather  all  the  while  concerned  only  about  his  gruel 
and  his  handkerchief.  Even  the  pains  and  troubles  incident 
to  his  state  visit  the  old  man  lightly.  Because  Southey  sat 
for  months  in  his  library,  unable  to  read  or  touch  the  books 
he  loved,  we  are  not  to  infer  that  he  was  unhappy.  If  the 
stage  darkens  as  the  curtain  falls,  certain  it  also  is  that  the 
senses  grow  duller  and  more  blunted.  "  Don't  cry  for  me, 
my  dear,"  said  an  old  lady  undergoing  an  operation  ;  "  I  do 
not  feel  it." 

It  seems  to  us,  therefore,  that  a  great  deal  of  unnecessary 
pity  has  been  thrown  away  upon  old  age.  We  begin  at 
school  reading  Cicero's  treatise,  hearing  him  talk  with  Scipio 
and  Loclius ;  we  hear  much  about  poor  old  men  ;  we  are 
taught  to  admire  the  vigor,  quickness,  and  capacity  of  youth 
and  manhood.  We  lose  sight  of  the  wisdom  which  age 
brings  even  to  the  most  foolish.  We  think  that  a  circum- 
scribed sphere  must  necessarily  be  an  unhappy  one.  It  is 
not  always  so.  What  one  abandons  in  growing  old  is  per- 
haps after  all  not  worth  having.  The  chief  part  of  youth  is 
but  excitement ;  often  both  unwise  and  unhealthy.  The 
same  pen  which  has  written,  with  a  morbid  feeling,  that 
"  there  is  a  class  of  beings  who  do  grow  old  in  their  youth 
and  die  ere  middle  age,"  tells  us  also  that  "  the  best  of  life  is 
but  intoxication."  That  passes  away.  The  man  who  has 
grown  old  does  not  care  about  it.  The  author  at  that  period 
has  no  feverish  excitement  about  seeing  himself  in  print; 


282  J.  HAIN  FRISWELL. 

he  does  not  hunt  newspapers  for  reviews  and  notices.  He 
is  content  to  wait ;  he  knows  what  fame  is  worth.  The 
obscure  man  of  science,  who  has  been  wishing  to  make  the 
world  better  and  wiser ;  the  struggling  curate,  the  poor  and 
hard-tried  man  of  God ;  the  enthusiastic  reformer,  who  has 
watched  the  sadly  slow  dawning  of  progress  and  liberty; 
the  artist,  whose  dream  of  beauty  slowly  fades  before  his 
dim  eyes  —  all  lay  down  their  feverish  wishes  as  they 
advance  in  life,  forget  the  bright  ideal  which  they  cannot 
reach,  and  embrace  the  more  imperfect  real.  "We  speak  not 
here  of  the  assured  Christian.  He,  from  the  noblest  pinna- 
cle of  faith,  beholds  a  promised  land,  and  is  eager  to  reach 
it ;  he  prays  "  to  be  delivered  from  the  body  of  this  death  " ; 
but  we  write  of  those  humbler,  perhaps  more  human  souls, 
•with  whom  increasing  age  each  day  treads  down  an  illu- 
sion. All  feverish  wishes,  raw  and  inconclusive  desires, 
have  died  down,  and  a  calm  beauty  and  peace  survive ; 
passions  are  dead,  temptations  weakened  or  conquered ; 
experience  has  been  won ;  selfish  interests  are  widened 
into  universal  ones ;  vain,  idle  hopes,  have  merged  into  a 
firmer  faith  or  a  complete  knowledge ;  and  more  light 
has  broken  in  upon  the  soul's  dark  cottage,  battered  and 
decayed,  "  through  chinks  which  Time  has  made." 

Again,  old  men  are  valuable,  not  only  as  relics  of  the 
past,  but  as  guides  and  prophets  for  the  future.  They  know 
the  pattern  of  every  turn  of  life's  kaleidoscope.  The  colors 
merely  fall  into  new  shapes ;  the  groundwork  is  just  the 
same.  The  good  which  a  calm,  kind,  and  cheerful  old  man 
can  do  is  incalculable.  And  whilst  he  does  good  to  others, 
he  enjoys  himself.  He  looks  not  unnaturally  to  that  which 
should  accompany  old  age  —  honor,  love,  obedience,  troops 
of  friends ;  and  he  plays  his  part  in  the  comedy  or  tragedy 
of  life  with  as  much  gusto  as  any  one  else.  Old  Montague 
or  Capulet,  and  old  Polonius,  that  wise  maxim-man,  enjoy 
themselves  quite  as  well  as  the  moody  Hamlet,  the  perturbed 


UPON   GROWING   OLD.  283 

Laertes,  or  even  gallant  Mercutio  or  love-sick  Romeo. 
Friar  Lawrence,  who  is  a  good  old  man,  is  perhaps  the 
happiest  of  all  in  the  dramatis  persona,  —  unless  we  take 
the  gossiping,  garrulous  old  nurse,  with  her  sunny  recollec- 
tions of  maturity  and  youth.  The  great  thing  is  to  have 
the  mind  well  employed,  to  work  whilst  it  is  yet  day.  The 
precise  Duke  of  Wellington,  answering  every  letter  with 
"  F.  M.  presents  his  compliments ";  the  wondrous  worker 
Humboldt,  with  his  orders  of  knighthood,  stars,  and  ribbons, 
lying  dusty  in  his  drawer,  still  contemplating  Cosmos,  and 
answering  his  thirty  letters  a  day,  —  were  both  men  in  ex- 
ceedingly enviable,  happy  positions ;  they  had  reached  the 
top  of  the  hill,  and  could  look  back  quietly  over  the  rough 
road  which  they  had  travelled.  We  are  not  all  Humboldts 
or  Wellingtons ;  but  we  can  all  be  busy  and  good.  Experi- 
ence must  teach  us  all  a  great  deal ;  and  if  it  only  teaches 
us  not  to  fear  the  future,  not  to  cast  a  maundering  regret 
over  the  past,  we  can  be  as  happy  in  old  age  —  ay,  and  far 
more  so  —  than  we  were  in  youth.  We  are  no  longer  the 
fools  of  time  and  error.  We  are  leaving  by  slow  degrees 
the  old  world;  we  stand  upon  the  threshold  of  the  new; 
not  without  hope,  but  without  fear,  in  an  exceedingly  natu- 
ral position,  with  nothing  strange  or  dreadful  about  it ;  with 
our  domain  drawn  within  a  narrow  circle,  but  equal  to  our 
power.  Muscular  strength,  organic  instincts,  are  all  gone ; 
but  what  then  ?  We  do  not  want  them ;  we  are  getting 
ready  for  the  great  change,  one  which  is  just  as  necessary 
as  it  was  to  be  born ;  and  to  a  little  child  perhaps  one  is  not 
a  whit  more  painful,  —  perhaps  not  so  painful  as  the  other. 
The  wheels  of  Time  have  brought  us  to  the  goal ;  we  are 
about  to  rest  while  others  labor,  to  stay  at  home  while 
others  wander.  We  touch  at  last  the  mysterious  door,  — 
are  we  to  be  pitied  or  to  be  envied  ? 


BY  E.  W.  EMERSON. 

YOU  shall  not  be  over-bold 
When  you  deal  with  arctic  cold, 
As  late  I  found  my  lukewarm  blood 
Chilled  wading  in  the  snow-choked  wood. 
How  should  I  fight  ?  my  foeman  fine 
Has  million  arms  to  one  of  mine. 
East,  west,  for  aid  I  looked  in  vain ; 
East,  west,  north,  south,  are  his  domain. 
Miles  off,  three  dangerous  miles,  is  home  ; 
Must  borrow  his  winds  who  there  would  come. 
Up  and  away  for  life !  be  fleet ! 
The  frost-king  ties  my  fumbling  feet, 
Sings  in  my  ears,  my  hands  are  stones, 
Curdles  the  blood  to  the  marble  bones, 
Tugs  at  the  heartstrings,  numbs  the  sense, 
Hems  in  the  life  with  narrowing  fence. 

Well,  in  this  broad  bed  lie  and  sleep, 

The  punctual  stars  will  vigil  keep, 

Enbalmed  by  purifying  cold, 

The  winds  shall  sing  their  dead-march  old, 

The  snow  is  no  ignoble  shroud, 

The  moon  thy  mourner,  and  the  cloud. 

Softly,  —  but  this  way  fate  was  pointing, 
'T  was  coming  fast  to  such  anointing, 


THE   TITMOUSE.  285 

When  piped  a  tiny  voice  hard  by, 
Gay  and  polite,  a  cheerful  cry, 
"  Chic-chic-a-dee-dee !  "  saucy  note, 
Out  of  sound  heart  and  merry  throat, 
As  if  it  said,  "  Good  day,  good  sir ! 
Fine  afternoon,  old  passenger ! 
Happy  to  meet  you  in  these  places, 
Where  January  brings  few  men's  faces." 

This  poet,  though  he  live  apart, 

Moved  by  a  hospitable  heart, 

Sped,  when  I  passed  his  sylvan  fort, 

To  do  the  honors  of  his  court, 

As  fits  a  feathered  lord  of  land, 

Flew  near,  with  soft  wing  grazed  my  hand, 

Hopped  on  the  bough,  then,  darting  low, 

Prints  his  small  impress  on  the  snow, 

Shows  feats  of  his  gymnastic  play, 

Head  downward,  clinging  to  the  spray. 

Here  was  this  atom  in  full  breath 

Hurling  defiance  at  vast  death, 

This  scrap  of  valor  just  for  play 

Fronts  the  north-wind  in  waistcoat  gray, 

As  if  to  shame  my  weak  behavior. 

I  greeted  loud  my  little  saviour : 

"  Thou  pet !  what  dost  here  ?  and  what  for  ? 

In  these  woods,  thy  small  Labrador 

At  this  pinch,  wee  San  Salvador ! 

What  fire  burns  in  that  little  chesf, 

So  frolic,  stout,  and  self-possest  ? 

Didst  steal  the  glow  that  lights  the  West' 

Henceforth  I  wear  no  stripe  but  thine : 

Ashes  and  black  all  hues  outshine. 

Why  are  not  diamonds  black  and  gray, 

To  ape  thy  dare-devil  array  ? 


286  R.    W.   EMERSON. 

And  I  affirm  the  spacious  North 
Exists  to  draw  thy  virtue  forth. 
I  think  no  virtue  goes  with  size  : 
The  reason  of  all  cowardice 
Is,  that  men  are  overgrown, 
And,  to  be  valiant,  must  come  down 
To  the  titmouse  dimension." 

'T  is  good-will  makes  intelligence, 

And  I  began  to  catch  the  sense 

Of  my  bird's  song  :  "  Live  out  of  doors, 

In  the  great  woods,  and  prairie  floors. 

I  dine  in  the  sun ;  when  he  sinks  in  the  seaj 

I,  too,  have  a  hole  in  a  hollow  tree. 

And  I  like  less  when  summer  beats 

With  stifling  beams  on  these  retreats 

Than  noontide  twilight  which  snow  makes 

With  tempest  of  the  blinding  flakes  : 

For  well  the  soul,  if  stout  within, 

Can  arm  impregnably  the  skin ; 

And  polar  frost  my  frame  defied, 

Made  of  the  air  that  blows  outside." 

With  glad  remembrance  of  my  debt, 
I  homeward  turn.     Farewell,  my  pet ! 
When  here  again  thy  pilgrim  comes, 
He  shall  bring  store  of  seeds  and  crumbs. 
Henceforth  I  prize  thy  wiry  chant 
O'er  all  that  mass  and  minster  vaunt : 
For  men  mishear  thy  call  in  spring, 
As  't  would  accost  some  frivolous  wing, 
Crying  out  of  the  hazel  copse,  "  Phe — be  !  " 
And  in  winter  "  Chic-a-dee-dee  !  " 
I  think  old  Caesar  must  have  heard 
In  Northern  Gaul  my  dauntless  bird, 


THE   TITMOUSE.  287 


And,  echoed  in  some  frosty  wold, 
Borrowed  thy  battle-numbers  bold. 
And  I  shall  write  our  annals  new, 
And  thank  thee  for  a  better  clew : 
I,  who  dreamed  not,  when  I  came  here, 
To  find  the  antidote  of  fear, 
Now  hear  thee  say  in  Roman  key, 
"Faun!   Ve-ni,  Vi-di,  Vi-ci." 


LITTLE    PANSIE. 

A   FRAGMENT. 
BY  NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE 

DOCTOR  DOLLIVER,  a  worthy  personage  of  ex- 
treme antiquity,  was  aroused  rather  prematurely,  one 
summer  morning,  by  the  shouts  of  the  child  Pansie,  in  an 
adjoining  chamber,  summoning  Old  Martha  (who  performed 
the  duties  of  nurse,  housekeeper,  and  kitchen-maid,  in  the 
Doctor's  establishment)  to  take  up  her  little  ladyship  and 
dress  her.  The  old  gentleman  woke  with  more  than  his  cus- 
tomary alacrity,  and,  after  taking  a  moment  to  gather  his 
wits  about  him,  pulled  aside  the  faded  moreen  curtains  of 
his  ancient  bed,  and  thurst  his  head  into  a  beam  of  sunshine 
that  caused  him  to  wink  and  withdraw  it  again.  This  tran- 
sitory glimpse  of  good  Dr.  Dolliver  showed  a  flannel  night- 
cap, fringed  round  with  stray  locks  of  silvery  white  hair, 
and  surmounting  a  meagre  and  duskily  yellow  visage,  which 
was  crossed  and  criss-crossed  with  a  record  of  his  long  life 
in  wrinkles,  faithfully  written,  no  doubt,  but  with  such 
cramped  chirography  of  Father  Time  that  the  purport  was 
illegible.  It  seemed  hardly  worth  while  for  the  patriarch 
to  get  out  of  bed  any  more,  and  bring  his  forlorn  shadow 
into  the  summer  day  that  was  made  for  younger  folks.  The 
Doctor,  however,  was  by  no  means  of  that  opinion,  being  con- 
siderably encouraged  towards  the  toil  of  living  tweuty-four 
hours  longer  by  the  comparative  ease  with  which  he  found 


LITTLE   PANSIE.  289 

himself  going  through  the  usually  painful  process  of  bestirring 
his  rust}'  joints,  (stiffened  by  the  very  rest  and  sleep  that 
should  have  made  them  pliable,)  and  putting  them  in  a 
condition  to  bear  his  weight  upon  the  floor.  Nor  was  he 
absolutely  disheartened  by  the  idea  of  those  tonsorial,  ablu- 
tionary,  and  personally  decorative  labors  which  are  apt  to 
become  so  intolerably  irksome  to  an  old  gentleman,  after 
performing  them  daily  and  daily  for  fifty,  sixty,  or  seventy 
years,  and  finding  them  still  as  immitigably  recurrent  as  at 
first.  Dr.  Dolliver  could  nowise  account  for  this  happy 
condition  of  his  spirits  and  physical  energies,  until  he 
remembered  taking  an  experimental  sip  of  a  certain  cordial 
which  was  long  ago  prepared  by  his  grandson  and  carefully 
sealed  up  in  a  bottle,  and  had  been  reposited  in  a  dark  closet 
among  a  parcel  of  effete  medicines  ever  since  that  gifted 
young  man's  death. 

"  It  may  have  wrought  effect  upon  me,"  thought  the  Doc- 
tor, shaking  his  head  as  he  lifted  it  again  from  the  pillow. 
"  It  may  be  so ;  for  poor  Cornelius  oftentimes  instilled  a 
strange  efficacy  into  his  perilous  drugs.  But  I  will  rather 
believe  it  to  be  the  operation  of  God's  mercy,  which  may 
have  temporarily  invigorated  my  feeble  age  for  little  Pan- 
sie's  sake." 

A  twinge  of  his  familiar  rheumatism,  as  he  put  his  foot 
out  of  bed,  taught  him  that  he  must  not  reckon  too  confi- 
dently upon  even  a  day's  respite  from  the  intrusive  family 
of  aches  and  infirmities  which,  with  their  proverbial  fidelity 
to  attachments  once  formed,  had  long  been  the  closest  ac- 
quaintances that  the  poor  old  gentleman  had  in  the  world. 
Nevertheless,  he  fancied  the  twinge  a  little  less  poignant 
than  those  of  yesterday ;  and,  moreover,  after  stinging  him 
pretty  smartly,  it  passed  gradually  off  with  a  thrill,  which, 
in  its  latter  stages,  grew  to  be  almost  agreeable.  Pain  is 
but  pleasure  too  strongly  emphasized.  With  cautious  move- 
ments, and  only  a  groan  or  two,  the  good  Doctor  transferred 
13  a 


290  NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE. 

himself  from  the  bed  to  the  floor,  where  he  stood  awhile, 
gazing  from  one  piece  of  quaint  furniture  to  another,  (such 
as  stiff-backed  Mayflower  chairs,  an  oaken  chest-of-drawers 
carved  cunningly  with  shapes  of  animals  and  wreaths  of 
foliage,  a  table  with  multitudinous  legs,  a  family-record  in 
faded  embroidery,  a  shelf  of  black-bound  books,  a  dirty 
heap  of  gallipots  and  phials  in  a  dim  corner,)  —  gazing  at 
these  things  and  steadying  himself  by  the  bedpost,  while 
his  inert  brain,  still  partially  benumbed  with  sleep,  came 
slowly  into  accordance  with  the  realities  about  him.  The 
object  which  most  helped  to  bring  Dr.  Dolliver  completely 
to  his  waking  perceptions  was  one  that  common  observers 
might  suppose  to  have  been  snatched  bodily  out  of  his 
dreams.  The  same  sunbeam  that  had  dazzled  the  Doctor 
between  the  bed-curtains  gleamed  on  the  weather-beaten 
gilding  which  had  once  adorned  this  mysterious  symbol,  and 
showed  it  to  be  an  enormous  serpent,  twining  round  a  wood- 
en post,  and  reaching  quite  from  the  floor  of  the  chamber  to 
its  ceiling. 

It  was  evidently  a  thing  that  could  boast  of  considerable 
antiquity,  the  dry-rot  having  eaten  out  its  eyes  and  gnawed 
away  the  tip  of  its  tail ;  and  it  must  have  stood  long  ex- 
posed to  the  atmosphere,  for  a  kind  of  gray  moss  had  par- 
tially overspread  its  tarnished  gilt  surface,  and  a  swallow,  or 
other  familiar  little  bird,  in  some  by-gone  summer,  seemed 
to  have  built  its  nest  in  the  yawning  and  exaggerated 
mouth.  It  looked  like  a  kind  of  Manichean  idol,  which 
might  have  been  elevated  on  a  pedestal  for  a  century  or  so, 
enjoying  the  worship  of  its  votaries  in  the  open  air,  until 
the  impious  sect  perished  from  among  men,  —  all  save  old 
Dr.  Dolliver,  who  had  set  up  the  monster  in  his  bedchamber, 
for  the  convenience  of  private  devotion.  But  we  are  un- 
pardonable in  suggesting  such  a  fantasy  to  the  prejudice  of 
our  venerable  friend,  knowing  him  to  have  been  as  pious 
and  upright  a  Christian,  and  with  as  little  of  the  serpent  in 


LITTLE  PANSIE.  291 

his  character,  as  ever  came  of  Puritan  lineage.  Not  to 
make  a  further  mystery  about  a  very  simple  matter,  this 
bedimmed  and  rotten  reptile  was  once  the  medical  emblem 
or  apothecary's  sign  of  the  famous  Dr.  Swinnerton,  who 
practised  physic  in  the  earlier  days  of  New  England,  when  a 
head  of  -<Esculapius  or  Hippocrates  would  have  vexed  the 
souls  of  the  righteous  as  savoring  of  heathendom.  The 
ancient  dispenser  of  drugs  had  therefore  set  up  an  image  of 
the  Brazen  Serpent,  and  followed  his  business  for  many 
years,  with  great  credit  under  this  Scriptural  device ;  and 
Dr.  Dolliver,  being  the  apprentice,  pupil,  and  humble  friend 
of  the  learned  Swinnerton's  old  age,  had  inherited  the  sym- 
bolic snake,  and  much  other  valuable  property,  by  his  be- 
quest. 

While  the  patriarch  was  putting  on  his  small-clothes,  he 
took  care  to  stand  in  the  parallelogram  of  bright  sunshine 
that  fell  upon  the  uncarpeted  floor.  The  summer  warmth 
was  very  genial  to  his  system,  and  yet  made  him  shiver ; 
his  wintry  veins  rejoiced  at  it,  though  the  reviving  blood 
tingled  through  them  with  a  half  painful  and  only  half 
pleasurable  titillation.  For  the  first  few  moments  after 
creeping  out  of  bed,  he  kept  his  back  to  the  sunny  window 
and  seemed  mysteriously  shy  of  glancing  thitherward ;  but 
as  the  June  fervor  pervaded  him  more  and  more  thoroughly, 
he  turned  bravely  about,  and  looked  forth  at  a  burial-ground 
on  the  corner  of  which  he  dwelt  There  lay  many  an  old 
acquaintance,  who  had  gone  to  sleep  with  the  flavor  of  Dr. 
Dolliver's  tinctures  and  powders  upon  his  tongue ;  it  was 
the  patient's  final  bitter  taste  of  this  world,  and  perhaps 
doomed  to  be  a  recollected  nauseousness  in  the  next.  Yes- 
terday, in  the  chill  of  his  forlorn  old  age,  the  Doctor  expect- 
ed soon  to  stretch  out  his  weary  bones  among  that  quiet 
community,  and  might  scarcely  have  shrunk  from  the  pros- 
pect on  his  own  account,  except,  indeed,  that  he  dreamily 
mixed  up  the  infirmities  of  his  present  condition  with  the 


292  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

repose  of  the  approaching  one,  being  haunted  by  a  notion 
that  the  damp  earth,  under  the  grass  and  dandelions,  must 
needs  be  pernicious  for  his  cough  and  his  rheumatism.  But, 
this  morning,  the  cheerful  sunbeams,  or  the  mere  taste  of 
his  grandson's  cordial  that  he  had  taken  at  bedtime,  or  the 
fitful  vigor  that  often  sports  irreverently  with  aged  people, 
had  caused  an  unfrozen  drop  of  youthfulness,  somewhere 
within  him,  to  expand. 

"  Hem  !  ahem  !  "  quoth  the  Doctor,  hoping  with  one  effort 
to  clear  his  throat  of  the  dregs  of  a  ten  years'  cough. 
"Matters  are  not  so  far  gone  with  me  as  I  thought.  I 
have  known  mighty  sensible  men,  when  only  a  little  age- 
stricken  or  otherwise  out  of  sorts,  to  die  of  mere  faintheart- 
edness, a  great  deal  sooner  than  they  need." 

He  shook  his  silvery  head  at  his  own  image  in  the  look- 
•ing-glass,  as  if  to  impress  the  apophthegm  on  that  shadowy 
representative  of  himself;  and  for  his  part,  he  determined 
to  pluck  up  a  spirit  and  live  as  long  as  he  possibly  could,  if 
it  were  only  for  the  sake  of  little  Pansie,  who  stood  as  close 
to  one  extremity  of  human  life  as  her  great-grandfather  to 
the  other.  This  child  of  three  years  old  occupied  all  the 
unfossilized  portion  of  good  Dr.  Dolliver's  heart.  Every 
other  interest  that  he  formerly  had,  and  the  entire  confra- 
ternity of  persons  whom  he  once  loved,  had  long  ago 
departed,  and  the  poor  Doctor  could  not  follow  them,  be- 
cause the  grasp  of  Pansie's  baby-fingers  held  him  back. 

So  he  crammed  a  great  silver  watch  into  his  fob,  and 
drew  on  a  patchwork  morning-gown  of  an  ancient  fashion. 
Its  original  material  was  said  to  have  been  the  embroidered 
front  of  his  own  wedding-waistcoat  and  the  silken  skirt  of 
his  wife's  bridal  attire,  which  his  eldest  granddaughter  had 
taken  from  the  carved  chest-of-drawers,  after  poor  Bessie, 
the  beloved  of  his  youth,  had  been  half  a  century  in  the 
grave.  Throughout  many  of  the  intervening  years,  as  the 
garment  got  ragged,  the  spinsters  of  the  old  man's  family 


LITTLE  PANSIE.  293 

had  quilted  their  duty  and  affection  into  it  in  the  shape  of 
patches  upon  patches,  rose-color,  crimson,  blue,  violet,  and 
green,  and 'then  (as  their  hopes  faded,  and  their  life  kept 
growing  shadier,  and  their  attire  took  a  sombre  hue)  sober 
gray  and  great  fragments  of  funereal  black,  until  the  Doctor 
could  revive  the  memory  of  most  things  that  had  befallen 
him  by  looking  at  his  patchwork-gown,  as  it  hung  upon  a 
chair.  And  now  it  was  ragged  again,  and  all  the  fingers 
that  should  have  mended  it  were  cold.  It  had  an  Eastern 
fragrance,  too,  a  smell  of  drugs,  strong-scented  herbs,  and 
spicy  gums,  gathered  from  the  many  potent  infusions  that 
had  from  time  to  time  been  spilt  over  it ;  so  that,  snuffing 
him  afar  off,  you  might  have  taken  Dr.  Dolliver  for  a  mum- 
my, and  could  hardly  have  been  undeceived  by  his  shrunken 
and  torpid  aspect,  as  he  crept  nearer. 

Wrapt  in  his  odorous  and  many-colored  robe,  he  took 
staff  in  hand  and  moved  pretty  vigorously  to  the  head  of 
the  staircase.  As  it  was  somewhat  steep,  and  but  dimly 
lighted,  he  began  cautiously  to  descend,  putting  his  left  hand 
on  the  banister,  and  poking  down  his  long  stick  to  assist  him 
in  making  sure  of  the  successive  steps ;  and  thus  he  became 
a  living  illustration  of  the  accuracy  of  Scripture,  where  it 
describes  the  aged  as  being  "  afraid  of  that  which  is  high," 
—  a  truth  that  is  often  found  to  have  a  sadder  purport  than 
its  external  one.  Half-way  to  the  bottom,  however,  the 
Doctor  heard  the  impatient  and  authoritative  tones  of  little 
Pansie, —  Queen  Pansie,  as  she  might  fairly  have  been 
styled,  in  reference  to  her  position  in  the  household,  —  call- 
ing amain  for  grandpapa  and  breakfast.  He  was  startled 
into  such  perilous  activity  by  the  summons,  that  his  heels 
slid  on  the  stair.-!,  the  slippers  were  shuffled  off  his  feet,  and 
he  saved  himself  from  a  tumble  only  by  quickening  his 
pace,  and  coming  down  at  almost  a  run. 

"  Mercy  on  my  poor  old  bones  I "  mentally  exclaimed  the 
Doctor,  fancying  himself  fractured  in  fifty  places.  "  Some 


294  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

of  them  are  broken,  surely,  and  metliinks  my  heart  has 
leaped  out  of  my  mouth !  What !  all  right  ?  Well,  well ! 
but  Providence  is  kinder  to  me  than  I  deserve,  prancing 
down  this  steep  staircase  like  a  kid  of  three  months  old ! " 

He  bent  stiffly  to  gather  up  his  slippers  and  fallen  staff; 
and  meanwhile  Pansie  had  heard  the  tumult  of  her  great- 
grandfather's descent,  and  was  pounding  against  the  door 
of  the  breakfast-room  in  her  haste  to  come  at  him.  The 
Doctor  opened  it,  and  there  she  stood,  a  rather  pale  and 
large-eyed  little  thing,  quaint  in  her  aspect,  as  might  well 
be  the  case  with  a  motherless  child,  dwelling  in  an  uncheer- 
ful  house,  with  no  other  playmates  than  a  decrepit  old  man 
and  a  kitten,  and  no  better  atmosphere  within-doors  than 
the  odor  of  decayed  apothecary's  stuff,  nor  gayer  neighbor- 
hood than  that  of  the  adjacent  burial-ground,  where  all  her 
relatives,  from  her  great-grandmother  downward,  lay  calling 
to  her, "  Pansie,  Pansie,  it  is  bedtime  ! "  even  in  the  prime  of 
the  summer  morning.  For  those  dead  women-folk,  especi- 
ally her  mother  and  the  whole  row  of  maiden  aunts  and 
grand-aunts,  could  not  but  be  anxious  about  the  child,  know- 
ing that  little  Pansie  would  be  far  safer  under  a  tuft  of 
dandelions  than  if  left  alone,  as  she  soon  must  be,  in  this 
difficult  and  deceitful  world. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  the  lack  of  damask  roses  in  her  cheeks, 
she  seemed  a  healthy  child,  and  certainly  showed  great  ca- 
pacity of  energetic  movement  in  the  impulsive  capers  with 
which  she  welcomed  her  venerable  progenitor.  She  shouted 
out  her  satisfaction,  moreover,  (as  her  custom  was,  having 
never  had  any  over-sensitive  auditors  about  her  to  tame 
down  her  voice,)  till  even  the  Doctor's  dull  ears  were  full 
of  the  clamor. 

"  Pansie,  darling,"  said  Dr.  Dolliver  cheerily,  patting  her 
brown  hair  with  his  tremulous  fingers,  "  thou  hast  put  some 
of  thine  own  friskiness  into  poor  old  grandfather,  this  fine 
morning  !  Dost  know,  child,  that  he  came  near  breaking  his 


LITTLE  PANSIE.  295 

neck  down-stairs  at  the  sound  of  thy  voice  ?  What  wouldst 
thou  have  done  then,  little  Pansie  ?  " 

"  Kiss  poor  grandpapa  and  make  him  well ! "  answered 
the  child,  remembering  the  Doctor's  own  mode  of  cure  in 
similar  mishaps  to  herself.  "  It  shall  do  poor  grandpapa 
good ! "  she  added,  putting  up  her  mouth  to  apply  the 
remedy. 

"  Ah,  little  one,  thou  hast  greater  faith  in  thy  medicines 
than  ever  I  had  in  my  drugs,"  replied  the  patriarch  with  a 
giggle,  surprised  and  delighted  at  his  own  readiness  of 
response.  "  But  the  kiss  is  good  for  my  feeble  old  heart, 
Pansie,  though  it  might  do  little  to  mend  a  broken  neck ;  so 
give  grandpapa  another  dose,  and  let  us  to  breakfast." 

In  this  merry  humor  they  sat  down  to  the  table,  great- 
grandpapa  and  Pansie  side  by  side,  and  the  kitten,  as  soon 
appeared,  making  a  third  in  the  party.  First,  she  showed 
her  mottled  head  out  of  Pansie's  lap,  delicately  sipping  milk 
from  the  child's  basin  without  rebuke ;  then  she  took  post 
on  the  old  gentleman's  shoulder,  purring  like  a  spinning- 
wheel,  trying  her  claws  in  the  wadding  of  his  dressing- 
gown,  and  still  more  impressively  reminding  him  of  her 
presence  by  putting  out  a  paw  to  intercept  a  warmed-over 
morsel  of  yesterday's  chicken  on  its  way  to  the  Doctor's 
mouth.  After  skilfully  achieving  this  feat,  she  scrambled 
down  upon  the  breakfast-table  and  began  to  wash  her  face 
and  hands.  Evidently,  these  companions  were  all  three  on 
intimate  terms,  as  was  natural  enough,  since  a  great  many 
childish  impulses  were  softly  creeping  back  on  the  simple- 
minded  old  man ;  insomuch  that,  if  no  worldly  necessities 
nor  painful  infirmity  had  disturbed  him,  his  remnant  of  life 
might  have  been  as  cheaply  and  cheerily  enjoyed  as  the 
early  playtime  of  the  kitten  and  the  child.  Old  Dr.  Dol- 
liver  and  his  great-granddaughter  (a  ponderous  title,  which 
seemed  quite  to  overwhelm  the  tiny  figure  of  Pansie)  had 
met  one  another  at  the  two  extremities  of  the  life-circle : 


296  NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE. 

her  sunrise  served  him  for  a  sunset,  illuminating  his  locks 
of  silver  and  hers  of  golden  brown  with  a  homogeneous 
shimmer  of  twinkling  light. 

Little  Pansie  was  the  one  earthly  creature  that  inherited 
a  drop  of  the  Dolliver  blood.  The  Doctor's  only  child,  poor 
Bessie's  offspring,  had  died  the  better  part  of  a  hundred 
years  before,  and  his  grandchildren,  a  numerous  and  dimly 
remembered  brood,  had  vanished  along  his  weary  track  in 
their  youth,  maturity,  or  incipient  age,  till,  hardly  knowing 
how  it  had  all  happened,  he  found  himself  tottering  onward 
with  an  infant's  small  fingers  in  his  nerveless  grasp.  So 
mistily  did  his  dead  progeny  come  and  go  in  the  patriarch's 
decayed  recollection,  that  this  solitary  child  represented  for 
him  the  successive  babyhoods  of  the  many  that  had  gone 
before.  The  emotions  of  his  early  paternity  came  back  to 
him.  She  seemed  the  baby  of  a  past  age  oftener  than  she 
seemed  Pansie.  A  whole  family  of  grand-aunts,  (one  of 
whom  had  perished  in  her  cradle,  never  so  mature  as  Pansie 
now,  another  in  her  virgin  bloom,  another  in  autumnal  maid- 
enhood, yellow  and  shrivelled,  with  vinegar  in  her  blood, 
and  still  another,  a  forlorn  widow,  whose  grief  outlasted 
even  its  vitality,  and  grew  to  be  merely  a  torpid  habit,  and 
was  saddest  then,)  —  all  their  hitherto  forgotten  features 
peeped  through  the  face  of  the  great-grandchild,  and  their 
long  inaudible  voices  sobbed,  shouted,  or  laughed,  in  her 
familiar  tones.  But  it  often  happened  to  Dr.  Dolliver,  while 
frolicking  amid  this  throng  of  ghosts,  where  the  one  reality 
looked  no  more  vivid  than  its  shadowy  sisters,  —  it  often 
happened  that  his  eyes  filled  with  tears  at  a  sudden  per- 
ception of  what  a  sad  and  poverty-stricken  old  man  he  was, 
already  remote  from  his  own  generation,  and  bound  to 
etray  farther  onward  as  the  sole  playmate  and  protector  of  a 
child ! 

As  Dr.  Dolliver,  in  spite  of  his  advanced  epoch  of  life,  is 
likely  to  remain  a  considerable  time  longer  upon  our  hands, 


LITTLE   PANSIE.  297 

we  deem  it  expedient  to  give  a  brief  sketch  of  his  position, 
in  order  that  the  story  may  get  onward  with  the  greater 
freedom  when  he  rises  from  the  breakfast-table.  Deeming 
it  a  matter  of  courtesy,  we  have  allowed  him  the  honorary 
title  of  Doctor,  as  did  all  his  townspeople  and  contempora- 
ries, except,  perhaps,  one  or  two  formal  old  physicians, 
stingy  of  civil  phrases  and  over-jealous  of  their  own  pro- 
fessional dignity.  Nevertheless,  these  crusty  graduates  were 
technically  right  in  excluding  Dr.  Dolliver  from  their  fra- 
ternity. He  had  never  received  the  degree  of  any  medical 
school,  nor  (save  it  might  be  for  the  cure  of  a  toothache,  or 
a  child's  rash,  or  a  whitlow  on  a  seamstress's  finger,  or  some 
such  trifling  malady)  had  he  ever  been  even  a  practitioner 
of  the  awful  science  with  which  his  popular  designation  con- 
nected him.  Our  old  friend,  in  short,  even  at  his  highest 
social  elevation,  claimed  to  be  nothing  more  than  an  apothe- 
cary, and,  in  these  later  and  far  less  prosperous  days,  scarcely 
so  much.  Since  the  death  of  his  last  surviving  grandson, 
(Pansie's  father,  whom  he  had  instructed  in  all  the  mys- 
teries of  his  science,  and  who,  being  distinguished  by  an  ex- 
perimental and  inventive  tendency,  was  generally  believed  to 
have  poisoned  himself  with  an  infallible  panacea  of  his  own 
distillation,)  —  since  that  final  bereavement,  Dr.  Dolliver's 
once  pretty  flourishing  business  had  lamentably  declined. 
After  a  few  months  of  unavailing  struggle,  he  found  it  ex- 
pedient to  take  down  the  Brazen  Serpent  from  the  position 
to  which  Dr.  Swinnerton  had  originally  elevated  it,  in  front 
of  his  shop  in  the  main  street,  and  to  retire  to  his  private 
dwelling,  situated  in  a  by-lane  and  on  the  edge  of  a  burial- 
ground. 

This  house,  as  well  as  the  Brazen  Serpent,  some  old  med- 
ical books,  and  a  drawer  full  of  manuscripts,  had  come  to 
him  by  the  legacy  of  Dr.  Swinnerton.  The  dreariness  of  the 
locality  had  been  of  small  importance  to  our  friend  in  his 
young  manhood,  when  he  first  led  his  fair  wife  over  the 
13* 


298  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

threshold,  and  so  long  as  neither  of  them  had  any  kinship 
with  the  human  dust  that  rose  into  little  hillocks,  and  still 
kept  accumulating  beneath  their  window.  But,  too  soon 
afterwards,  when  poor  Bessie  herself  had  gone  early  to  rest 
there,  it  is  probable  that  an  influence  from  her  grave  may 
have  prematurely  calmed  and  depressed  her  widowed  hus- 
band, taking  away  much  of  the  energy  from  what  should 
have  been  the  most  active  portion  of  his  life.  Thus  he 
never  grew  rich.  His  thrifty  townsmen  used  to  tell  him, 
that,  in  any  other  man's  hands,  Dr.  Swinnerton's  Brazen 
Serpent  (meaning,  I  presume,  the  inherited  credit  and  good- 
will of  that  old  worthy's  trade)  would  need  but  ten  years' 
time  to  transmute  its  brass  into  gold.  In  Dr.  Dolliver's 
keeping,  as  we  have  seen,  the  inauspicious  symbol  lost  the 
greater  part  of  what  superficial  gilding  it  originally  had. 
Matters  had  not  mended  with  him  in  more  advanced  life, 
after  he  had  deposited  a  further  and  further  portion  of  his 
heart  and  its  affections  in  each  successive  one  of  a  long  row 
of  kindred  graves ;  and  as  he  stood  over  the  last  of  them, 
holding  Pansie  by  the  hand  and  looking  down  upon  the 
coffin  of  his  grandson,  it  is  no  wonder  that  the  old  man 
wept,  partly  for  those  gone  before,  but  not  so  bitterly  as  for 
the  little  one  that  stayed  behind.  Why  had  not  God  taken 
her  with  the  rest?  And  then,  so  hopeless  as  he  was,  so 
destitute  of  possibilities  of  good,  his  weary  frame,  his  de- 
crepit bones,  his  dried-up  heart,  might  have  crumbled  into 
dust  at  once,  and  have  been  scattered  by  the  next  wind  over 
all  the  heaps  of  earth  that  were  akin  to  him. 

This  intensity  of  desolation,  however,  was  of  too  positive 
a  character  to  be  long  sustained  by  a  person  of  Dr.  Dolli- 
ver's original  gentleness  and  simplicity,  and  now  so  com- 
pletely tamed  by  age  and  misfortune.  Even  before  he 
turned  away  from  the  grave,  he  grew  conscious  of  a  slightly 
cheering  and  invigorating  effect  from  the  tight  grasp  of  the 
child's  warm  little  hand.  Feeble  as  he  was,  she  seemed  to 


LITTLE   PANSIE.  299 

adopt  him  willingly  for  her  protector.  And  the  Doctor 
never  afterwards  shrank  from  his  duty  nor  quailed  beneath 
it,  but  bore  himself  like  a  man,  striving,  amid  the  sloth  of 
age  and  the  breaking-up  of  intellect,  to  earn  the  competency 
which  he  had  failed  to  accumulate  even  in  his  most  vigorous 
days. 

To  the  extent  of  securing  a  present  subsistence  for  Pansie 
and  himself,  he  was  successful.  After  his  son's  death,  when 
the  Brazen  Serpent  fell  into  popular  disrepute,  a  small  share 
of  tenacious  patronage  followed  the  old  man  into  his  retire- 
ment. In  his  prime,  he  had  been  allowed  to  possess  more 
skill  than  usually  fell  to  the  share  of  a  Colonial  apothecary, 
having  been  regularly  apprenticed  to  Dr.  Swinnerton,  who, 
throughout  his  long  practice,  was  accustomed  personally  to 
concoct  the  medicines  which  he  prescribed  and  dispensed. 
It  was  believed,  indeed,  that  the  ancient  physician  had 
learned  the  art  at  the  world-famous  drug-manufactory  of 
Apothecary's  Hall,  in  London,  and,  as  some  people  half- 
malignly  whispered,  had  perfected  himself  under  masters 
more  subtle  than  were  to  be  found  even  there.  Unques- 
tionably, in  many  critical  cases  he  was  known  to  have  em- 
ployed remedies  of  mysterious  composition  and  dangerous 
potency,  which  in  less  skilful  hands  would  have  been  more 
likely  to  kill  than  cure.  He  would  willingly,  it  is  said,  have 
taught  his  apprentice  the  secrets  of  these  prescriptions,  but 
the  latter,  being  of  a  timid  character  and  delicate  conscience, 
had  shrunk  from  acquaintance  with  them.  It  was  probably 
as  the  result  of  the  same  scrupulosity  that  Dr.  Dolliver  had 
always  declined  to  enter  the  medical  profession,  in  which 
his  old  instructor  had  set  him  such  heroic  examples  of 
adventurous  dealing  with  matters  of  life  and  death.  Never- 
theless, the  aromatic  fragrance,  so  to  speak,  of  the  learned 
Swinnerton's  reputation  had  clung  to  our  friend  through 
life ;  and  there  were  elaborate  preparations  in  the  pharma- 
copoeia of  that  day,  requiring  such  minute  skill  and  consci- 


300  NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE. 

entious  fidelity  in  the  concocter  that  the  physicians  were  still 
glad  to  confide  them  to  one  in  whom  these  qualities  were  so 
evident. 

Moreover,  the  grandmothers  of  the  community  were  kind 
to  him,  and  mindful  of  his  perfumes,  his  rose-water,  his 
cosmetics,  tooth-powders,  pomanders,  and  pomades,  the  scent- 
ed memory  of  Avhich  lingered  about  their  toilet-tables,  or 
came  faintly  back  from  the  dajTs  when  they  were  beautiful. 
Among  this  class  of  customers  there  was  still  a  demand  for 
certain  comfortable  little  nostrums,  (delicately  sweet  and 
pungent  to  the  taste,  cheering  to  the  spirits,  and  fragrant  in 
the  breath.)  the  proper  distillation  of  which  was  the  airiest 
secret  that  the  mystic  Swinnerton  had  left  behind  him. 
And,  besides,  these  old  ladies  had  always  liked  the  manners 
of  Dr.  Dolliver,  and  used  to  speak  of  his  gentle  courtesy  be- 
hind the  counter  as  having  positively  been  something  to  ad- 
mire ;  though,  of  later  years,  an  unrefined,  an  almost  rustic 
simplicity,  such  as  belonged  to  his  humble  ancestors,  appear- 
ed to  have  taken  possession  of  him,  as  it  often  does  of  prettily 
mannered  men  in  their  late  decay. 

But  it  resulted  from  all  these  favorable  circumstances  that 
the  Doctor's  marble  mortar,  though  worn  with  long  service 
and  considerably  damaged  by  a  crack  that  pervaded  it,  con- 
tinued to  keep  up  an  occasional  intimacy  with  the  pestle  ; 
and  he  still  weighed  drachms  and  scruples  in  his  delicate 
scales,  though  it  seemed  impossible,  dealing  with  such  mi- 
nute quantities,  that  his  tremulous  fingers  should  not  put  in 
too  little  or  too  much,  leaving  out  life  with  the  deficiency  or 
spilling  in  death  with  the  surplus.  To  say  the  truth,  his 
stanchest  friends  were  beginning  to  think  that  Dr.  Dolliver's 
fits  of  absence  (when  his  mind  appeared  absolutely  to  depart 
from  him,  while  his  frail  old  body  worked  on  mechanically) 
rendered  him  not  quite  trustworthy  without  a  close  super- 
vision of  his  proceedings.  It  was  impossible,  however,  to 
convince  the  aged  apothecary  of  the  necessity  for  such  vigi- 


LITTLE   PANSIE.  801 

lance ;  and  if  anything  could  stir  up  his  gentle  temper  to 
wrath,  or,  as  oftener  happened,  to  tears,  it  was  the  attempt 
(which  he  was  marvellously  quick  to  detect)  thus  to  inter- 
fere with  his  long-familiar  business. 

The  public,  meanwhile,  ceasing  to  regard  Dr.  Dolliver  hi 
his  professional  aspect,  had  begun  to  take  an  interest  in  him 
as  perhaps  their  oldest  fellow-citizen.  It  was  he  that  re- 
membered the  Great  Fire  and  the  Great  Snow,  and  that  had 
been  a  grown-up  stripling  at  the  terrible  epoch  of  Witch- 
Times,  and  a  child  just  breeched  at  the  breaking-out  of  King 
Philip's  Indian  War.  He,  too,  in  his  school-boy  days,  had 
received  a  benediction  from  the  patriarchal  Governor  Brad- 
street,  and  thus  could  boast  (somewhat  as  Bishops  do  of 
their  unbroken  succession  from  the  Apostles)  of  a  transmit- 
ted blessing  from  the  whole  company  of  sainted  Pilgrims, 
among  whom  the  venerable  magistrate  had  been  an  honored 
companion.  Viewing  their  townsman  in  this  aspect,  the 
people  revoked  the  courteous  Doctorate  with  which  they 
had  heretofore  decorated  him,  and  now  knew  him  most 
familiarly  as  Grandsir  Dolliver.  His  white  head,  his  Puri- 
tan band,  his  threadbare  garb,  (the  fashion  of  which  he  had 
ceased  to  change,  half  a  century  ago,)  his  gold-headed  staff, 
that  had  been  Dr.  Swinnerton's,  his  shrunken,  frosty  figure, 
and  its  feeble  movement,  —  all  these  characteristics  had  a 
wholeness  and  permanence  in  the  public  recognition,  like 
the  meeting-house  steeple  or  the  town-pump.  All  the 
younger  portion  of  the  inhabitants  unconsciously  ascribed 
a  sort  of  aged  immortality  to  Grandsir  Dolliver's  infirm  and 
reverend  presence.  They  fancied  that  he  had  been  born 
old,  (at  least,  I  remember  entertaining  some  such  notions 
about  age-stricken  people,  when  I  myself  was  young.)  and 
that  he  could  the  better  tolerate  his  aches  and  incommodities, 
his  dull  ears  and  dim  eyes,  his  remoteness  from  human  inter- 
course within  the  crust  of  indurated  years,  the  cold  tempera- 
ture that  kept  him  always  shivering  and  sad,  the  heavy 


302  NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE. 

burden  that  invisibly  bent  down  his  shoulders,  —  that  all 
these  intolerable  things  might  bring  a  kind  of  enjoyment  to 
Grandsir  Dolliver,  as  the  life-long  conditions  of  his  peculiar 
existence. 

But,  alas !  it  was  a  terrible  mistake.  This  weight  of 
years  had  a  perennial  novelty  for  the  poor  sufferer.  He 
never  grew  accustomed  to  it,  but,  long  as  he  had  now  borne 
the  fretful  torpor  of  his  waning  life,  and  patient  as  he 
seemed,  he  still  retained  an  inward  consciousness  that  these 
stiffened  shoulders,  these  quailing  knee*5*,  this  cloudiness  of 
sight  and  brain,  this  confused  forgetfulness  of  men  and 
affairs,  were  troublesome  accidents  that  did  not  really  belong 
to  him.  He  possibly  cherished  a  half-recognized  idea  that 
they  might  pass  away.  Youth,  however  eclipsed  for  a 
season,  is  undoubtedly  the  proper,  permanent,  and  genuine 
condition  of  man;  and  if  we  look  closely  into  this  dreary 
delusion  of  growing  old,  we  shall  find  that  it  never  abso- 
lutely succeeds  in  laying  hold  of  our  innermost  convictions. 
A  sombre  garment,  woven  of  life's  unrealities,  has  muffled 
us  from  our  true  self,  but  within  it  smiles  the  young  man 
whom  we  knew ;  the  ashes  of  many  perishable  things  have 
fallen  upon  our  youthful  fire,  but  beneath  them  lurk  the 
seeds  of  inextinguishable  flame.  So  powerful  is  this  in- 
stinctive faith  that  men  of  simple  modes  of  character  are 
prone  to  antedate  its  consummation.  And  thus  it  happened 
with  poor  Grandsir  Dolliver,  who  often  awoke  from  an  old 
man's  fitful  sleep  with  a  sense  that  his  senile  predicament 
was  but  a  dream  of  the  past  night ;  and  hobbling  hastily 
across  the  cold  floor  to  the  looking-glass,  he  would  be  griev- 
ously disappointed  at  beholding  the  white  hair,  the  wrinkles 
and  furrows,  the  ashen  visage  and  bent  form,  the  melancholy 
mask  of  Age,  in  which,  as  he  now  remembered,  some  strange 
and  sad  enchantment  had  involved  him  for  years  gone  by  ! 

To  other  eyes  than  his  own,  however,  the  shrivelled  old 
gentleman  looked  as  if  there  were  little  hope  of  his  throw- 


LITTLE   PANSIE.  303 

ing  off  this  too  artfully  wrought  disguise,  until,  at  no  distent 
day,  his  stooping  figure  should  be  straightened  out,  his  hoary 
locks  be  smoothed  over  his  brows,  and  his  much  enduring 
bones  be  laid  safely  away,  with  a  green  coverlet  spread  over 
them,  beside  his  Bessie,  who  doubtless  would  recognize  her 
youthful  companion  in  spite  of  his  ugly  garniture  of  decay. 
He  longed  to  be  gazed  at  by  the  loving  eyes  now  closed ; 
he  shrank  from  the  hard  stare  of  them  that  loved  him  not. 
Walking  the  streets  seldom  and  reluctantly,  he  felt  a  dreary 
impulse  to  elude  the  people's  observation,  asjf  with  a  sense 
that  he  had  gone  irrevocably  out  of  fashion,  and  broken  his 
connecting  links  with  the  network  of  human  life ;  or  else  it 
was  that  nightmare-feeling  which  we  sometimes  have  in 
dreams,  when  we  seem  to  find  ourselves  wandering  through 
a  crowded  avenue,  with  the  noonday  sun  upon  us,  in  some 
wild  extravagance  of  dress  or  nudity.  He  was  conscious  of 
estrangement  from  his  towns-people,  but  did  not  always 
know  how  nor  wherefore,  nor  why  he  should  be  thus  grop- 
ing through  the  twilight  mist  in  solitude.  If  they  spoke 
loudly  to  him,  with  cheery  voices,  the  greeting  translated 
itself  faintly  and  mournfully  to  his  ears ;  if  they  shook  him 
by  the  hand,  it  was  as  if  a  thick,  insensible  glove  absorbed 
the  kindly  pressure  and  the  warmth.  When  little  Pansie 
was  the  companion  of  his  walk,  her  childish  gayety  and 
freedom  did  not  avail  to  bring  him  into  closer  relationship 
with  men,  but  seemed  to  follow  him  into  that  region  of  in- 
definable remoteness,  that  dismal  Fairy-Land  of  aged  fancy, 
into  which  old  Grandsir  Dolliver  had  so  strangely  crept 
away. 

Yet  there  were  moments,  as  many  persons  had  noticed, 
when  the  great-grandpapa  would  suddenly  take  stronger 
hues  of  life.  It  was  as  if  his  faded  figure  had  been  col- 
ored over  anew,  or  at  least,  as  he  and  Pansie  moved  along 
the  street,  as  if  a  sunbeam  had  fallen  across  him,  instead 
of  the  gray  gloom  of  an  instant  before.  His  chilled  sensi- 


304  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

bilities  had  probably  been  touched  and  quickened  by  the 
warm  contiguity  of  his  little  companion  through  the  medium 
of  her  hand,  as  it  stirred  within  his  own,  or  some  inflection 
of  her  voice  that  set  his  memory  ringing  and  chiming  with 
forgotten  sounds.  While  that  music  lasted,  the  old  man 
was  alive  and  happy.  And  there  were  seasons,  it  might  be, 
happier  than  even  these,  when  Pansie  had  been  kissed  and  put 
to  bed,  and  Grandsir  Dolliver  sat  by  his  fireside  gazing  in 
among  the  massive  coals,  and  absorbing  their  glow  into  those 
cavernous  abysses  with  which  all  men  communicate.  Hence 
come  angels  or  fiends  into  our  twilight  musings,  according 
as  we  may  have  peopled  them  in  by-gone  years.  Over 
our  friend's  face,  in  the  rosy  flicker  of  the  fire-gleam,  stole 
an  expression  of  repose  and  perfect  trust  that  made  him  as 
beautiful  to  look  at,  in  his  high-backed  chair,  as  the  child 
Pansie  on  her  pillow ;  and  sometimes  the  spirits  that  were 
watching  him  beheld  a  calni  surprise  draw  slowly  over  his 
features  and  brighten  into  joy,  yet  not  so  vividly  as  to  break 
his  evening  quietude.  The  gate  of  heaven  had  been  kindly 
left  ajar,  that  this  forlorn  old  creature  might  catch  a  glimpse 
within.  All  the  night  afterwards,  he  would  be  semi-con- 
scious of  an  intangible  bliss  diffused  through  the  fitful  lapses 
of  an  old  man's  slumber,  and  would  awake,  at  early  dawn, 
with  a  faint  thrilling  of  the  heartstrings,  as  if  there  had 
been  music  just  now  wandering  over  them. 


PALINGENESIS. 


Br  H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

I  LAY  upon  the  headland-height,  and  listened 
To  the  incessant  sobbing  of  the  sea 
In  caverns  under  me, 

And  watched  the  waves,  that  tossed  and  fled  and  glistened, 
Until  the  rolling  meadows  of  amethyst 
Melted  away  in  mist. 

Then  suddenly,  as  one  from  sleep,  I  started ; 
For  round  about  me  all  the  sunny  capes 

Seemed  peopled  with  the  shapes 
Of  those  whom  I  had  known  in  days  departed, 
Apparelled  in  the  loveliness  which  gleams 

On  faces  seen  in  dreams. 

A  moment  only,  and  the  light  -and  glory 
Faded  away,  and  the  disconsolate  shore 

Stood  lonely  as  before  ; 
And  the  wild  roses  of  the  promontory 
Around  me  shuddered  in  the  wind,  and  shed 

Their  petals  of  pale  red. 

There  was  an  old  belief  that  in  the  embers 
Of  all  things  their  primordial  form  exists, 
And  cunning  alchemists 

T 


306  H.   W.   LONGFELLOW. 

Could  recreate  the  rose  with  all  its  members 
From  its  own  ashes,  but  without  the  bloom, 
Without  the  lost  perfume. 

Ah,  me !  what  wonder-working,  occult  science 
Can  from  the  ashes  in  our  hearts  once  more 

The  rose  of  youth  restore  ? 
What  craft  of  alchemy  can  bid  defiance 
To  time  and  change,  and  for  a  single  hour 

Renew  this  phantom-flower  ? 

"  Oh,  give  me  back,"  I  cried,  "  the  vanished  splendors, 
The  breath  of  morn,  and  the  exultant  strife, 

When  the  swift  stream  of  life 
Bounds  o'er  its  rocky  channel,  and  surrenders 
The  pond,  with  all  its  lilies,  for  the  leap 

Into  the  unknown  deep !  " 

And  the  sea  answered,  with  a  lamentation, 
Like  some  old  prophet  wailing,  and  it  said, 

"  Alas  !  thy  youth  is  dead  ! 
It  breathes  no  more,  its  heart  has  no  pulsation, 
In  the  dark  places  with  the  dead  of  old 

It  lies  forever  cold !  " 

Then  said  I,  "  From  its  consecrated  cerements 
I  will  not  drag  this  sacred  dust  again, 

Only  to  give  me  pain  ; 

But,  still  remembering  all  the  lost  endearments, 
Go  on  thy  way,  like  one  who  looks  before, 

And  turns  to  weep  no  more." 

Into  what  land  of  harvests,  what  plantations 
Bright  with  autumnal  foliage  and  the  glow 
Of  sunsets  burning  low  ; 


PALINGENESIS.  307 

Beneath  what  midnight  skies,  whose  constellations 
Light  up  the  spacious  avenues  between 
This  world  and  the  unseen  ! 

Amid  what  friendly  greetings  and  caresses, 
What  households,  though  not  alien,  yet  not  mine, 

What  bowers  of  rest  divine ; 
To  what  temptations  in  lone  wildernesses, 
What  famine  of  the  heart,  what  pain  and  loss, 

The  bearing  of  what  cross  ! 

I  do  not  know  ;  nor  will  I  vainly  question 
Those  pages  of  the  mystic  book  which  hold 

The  story  still  untold, 
But  without  rash  conjecture  or  suggestion 
Turn  its  last  leaves  in  reverence  and  good  heed, 

Until  "The  End  "I  read. 


MY    CHILDHOOD. 


BY  SIR  WALTER   SCOTT. 

IT  was  at  Sandy-Knowe,  in  the  residence  of  my  pater- 
nal grandfather,  that  I  had  the  first  consciousness  of  ex- 
istence ;  and  I  recollect  distinctly  that  my  situation  and 
appearance  were  a  little  whimsical.  Among  the  odd  reme- 
dies recurred  to  to  aid  my  lameness,  some  one  had  recom- 
mended that  so  often  as  a  sheep  was  killed  for  the  use  of  the 
family,  I  should  be  stripped,  and  swathed  up  in  the  skin, 
warm  as  it  was  flayed  from  the  carcass  of  the  animal.  In 
this  Tartar-like  habiliment  I  well  remember  lying  upon  the 
floor  of  the  little  parlor  in  the  farm-house,  while  my  grand- 
father, a  venerable  old  man  with  white  hair,  used  every 
excitement  to  make  me  try  to  crawl.  I  also  distinctly  re- 
member the  late  Sir  George  MacDougal  of  Makerstoun, 
father  of  the  present  Sir  Henry  Hay  MacDougal,  joining  in 
this  kindly  attempt.  He  was,  God  knows  how,  a  relation  of 
ours,  and  I  still  recollect  him  in  his  old-fashioned  military 
habit  (he  had  been  colonel  of  the  Greys),  with  a  small 
cocked  hat,  deeply  laced,  an  embroidered  scarlet  waistcoat, 
and  a  light-colored  coat,  with  milk-white  locks  tied  in  a  mili- 
tary fashion,  kneeling  on  the  ground  before  me,  and  dragging 
his  watch  along  the  carpet  to  induce  me  to  follow  it.  The 
benevolent  old  soldier  and  the  infant  wrapped  in  his  sheep- 
skin would  have  afforded  an  odd  group  to  uninterested  spec- 
tators. This  must  have  happened  about  my  third  year,  for 


MY   CHILDHOOD.  309 

Sir    George    MacDougal   and  my  grandfather  both  died 
shortly  after  that  period. 

My  grandmother  continued  for  some  years  to  take  charge 
of  the  farm,  assisted  by  my  father's  second  brother,  Mr. 
Thomas  Scott,  who  resided  at  Crailing,  as  factor  or  land- 
steward  for  Mr.  Scott  of  Danesfield,  then  proprietor  of  that 
estate.  This  was  during  the  heat  of  the  American  war,  and 
I  remember  being  as  anxious  on  my  uncle's  weekly  visits 
(for  we  heard  news  at  no  other  time)  to  hear  of  the  defeat 
of  Washington,  as  if  I  had  had  some  deep  and  personal  cause 
of  antipathy  to  him.  I  know  not  how  this  was  combined 
with  a  very  strong  prejudice  in  favor  of  the  Stuart  family, 
which  I  had  originally  imbibed  from  the  songs  and  tales  of 
the  Jacobites.  This  latter  political  propensity  was  deeply 
confirmed  by  the  stories  told  in  my  hearing  of  the  cruelties 
exercised  in  the  executions  at  Carlisle,  and  in  the  Highlands, 
after  the  battle  of  Culloden.  One  or  two  of  our  own  distant 
relations  had  fallen  on  that  occasion,  and  I  remember  of  de- 
testing the  name  of  Cumberland  with  more  than  infant  ha- 
tred. Mr.  Curie,  farmer  at  Yetbyre,  husband  of  one  of  my 
aunts,  had  been  present  at  their  execution ;  and  it  was  prob- 
ably from  him  that  I  first  heard  these  tragic  tales  which 
made  so  great  an  impression  on  me.  The  local  information, 
which  I  conceive  had  some  share  in  forming  my  future  taste 
and  pursuits,  I  derived  from  the  old  songs  and  tales  which 
then  formed  the  amusement  of  a  retired  country  family. 
My  grandmother,  in  whose  youth  the  old  Border  depreda- 
tions were  matter  of  recent  tradition,  used  to  tell  me  many 
a  tale  of  Watt  of  Harden,  Wight  Willie  of  Aikwood,  Jamie 
Telfer  of  the  fair  Dodhead,  and  other  heroes, —  merrymen 
all  of  the  persuasion  and  calling  of  Robin  Hood  and  Little 
John.  A  more  recent  hero,  but  not  of  less  note,  was  the 
celebrated  Diel  of  Littledean,  whom  she  well  remembered, 
as  he  had  married  her  mother's  sister.  Of  this  extraordi- 
nary person  I  learned  many  a  story,  grave  and  gay,  comic 


310  SIB   WALTER   SCOTT. 

and  warlike.  Two  or  three  old  books  which  lay  in  the 
window-seat  were  explored  for  my  amusement  in  the  tedious 
winter-days.  Automathes,  and  Ramsay's  Tea-table  Miscel- 
lany, were  my  favorites,  although  at  a  later  period  an  odd 
volume  of  Joseplms's  Wars  of  the  Jews  divided  my  partiality. 
My  kind  and  affectionate  aunt,  Miss  Janet  Scott,  whose 
memory  will  ever  be  dear  to  me,  used  to  read  these  works 
to  me  with  admirable  patience,  until  I  could  repeat  long  pas- 
sages by  heart.  The  ballad  of  Hardyknute  I  was  early 
master  of,  to  the  great  annoyance  of  almost  our  only  visiter, 
the  worthy  clergyman  of  the  parish,  Dr.  Duncan,  who  had 
not  patience  to  have  a  sober  chat  interrupted  by  my  shout- 
ing forth  this  ditty.  Methinks  I  now  see  his  tall  thin 
emaciated  figure,  his  legs  cased  in  clasped  gambadoes,  and 
his  face  of  a  length  that  would  have  rivalled  the  Knight  of 
La  Mancha's,  and  hear  him  exclaiming,  "  One  may  as  well 
speak  in  the  mouth  of  a  cannon  as  where  that  child  is." 
With  this  little  acidity,  which  was  natural  to  him,  he  was  a 
most  excellent  and  benevolent  man,  a  gentleman  in  every 
feeling,  and  altogether  different  from  those  of  his  order  who 
cringe  at  the  tables  of  the  gentry,  or  domineer  and  riot  at 
those  of  the  yeomanry.  In  his  youth  he  had  been  chaplain 
in  the  family  of  Lord  Marchmont  —  had  seen  Pope  —  and 
could  talk  familiarly  of  many  characters  who  had  survived 
the  Augustan  age  of  Queen  Anne.  Though  valetudinary, 
he  lived  to  be  nearly  ninety,  and  to  welcome  to  Scotland  his 
son,  Colonel  William  Duncan,  who,  with  the  highest  charac- 
ter for  military  and  civil  merit,  had  made  a  considerable  for- 
tune in  India.  In  [1795],  a  few  days  before  his  death,  I 
paid  him  a  visit,  to  inquire  after  his  health.  I  found  him 
emaciated  to  the  last  degree,  wrapped  in  a  tartan  night-gown, 
and  employed  with  all  the  activity  of  health  and  youth  in 
correcting  a  history  of  the  Revolution,  which  he  intended 
should  be  given  to  the  public  when  he  was  no  more.  He 
read  me  several  passages  with  a  voice  naturally  strong,  and 


MY   CHILDHOOD.  311 

•which  the  feelings  of  an  author  then  raised  above  the  de- 
pression of  age  and  declining  health.  I  begged  him  to  spare 
this  fatigue,  which  could  not  but  injure  his  health.  His  an- 
swer was  remarkable.  "  I  know,"  he  said,  "  that  I  cannot 
survive  a  fortnight  —  and  what  signifies  an  exertion  that  can 
at  worst  only  accelerate  my  death  a  few  days?"  I  mar- 
velled at  the  composure  of  this  reply,  for  his  appearance 
sufficiently  vouched  the  truth  of  his  prophecy,  and  rode 
home  to  my  uncle's  (then  my  abode),  musing  what  there 
could  be  in  the  spirit  of  authorship  that  could  inspire  its 
votaries  with  the  courage  of  martyrs.  He  died  within  less 
than  the  period  he  assigned, —  with  which  event  I  close  my 
digression. 

I  was  in  my  fourth  year  when  my  father  was  advised  that 
the  Bath  waters  might  be  of  some  advantage  to  my  lame- 
ness. My  affectionate  aunt,  although  such  a  journey  prom- 
ised to  a  person  of  her  retired  habits  anything  but  pleasure 
or  amusement,  undertook  as  readily  to  accompany  me  to  the 
wells  of  Bladud,  as  if  she  had  expected  all  the  delight  that 
ever  the  prospect  of  a  watering-place  held  out  to  its  most 
impatient  visitants.  My  health  was  by  this  time  a  good 
deal  confirmed  by  the  country  air,  and  the  influence  of  that 
imperceptible  and  unfatiguing  exercise  to  which  the  good 
sense  of  my  grandfather  had  subjected  me ;  for  when  the 
day  was  fine,  I  was  usually  carried  out  and  laid  down  beside 
the  old  shepherd,  among  the  crags  or  rocks  round  which  he 
fed  his  sheep.  The  impatience  of  a  child  soon  inclined  me 
to  struggle  with  my  infirmity,  and  I  began  by  degrees  to 
stand,  to  walk,  and  to  run.  Although  the  limb  affected  was 
much  shrunk  and  contracted,  my  general  health,  which  was 
of  more  importance,  was  much  strengthened  by  being  fre- 
quently in  the  open  air,  and,  in  a  word,  I  who  in  a  city  had 
probably  been  condemned  to  hopeless  and  helpless  decrepi- 
tude, was  now  a  healthy,  high-spirited,  and,  my  lameness 
apart,  a  sturdy  child, —  non  sine  diis  animosus  infans. 


312  SIR   WALTER   SCOTT. 

We  went  to  London  by  sea,  and  it  may  gratify  the  cu- 
riosity of  minute  biographers  to  learn,  that  our  voyage  was 
performed  in  the  Duchess  of  Buccleuch,  Captain  Beatson, 
master.  At  London  we  made  a  short  stay,  and  saw  some 
of  the  common  shows  exhibited  to  strangers.  When,  twen- 
ty-five years  afterwards,  I  visited  the  Tower  of  London  and 
Westminster  Abbey,  I  was  astonished  to  find  how  accurate 
my  recollections  of  these  celebrated  places  of  visitation 
proved  to  be,  and  I  have  ever  since  trusted  more  implicitly 
to  my  juvenile  reminiscences.  At  Bath,  where  I  lived  about 
a  year,  I  went  through  all  the  usual  discipline  of  the  pump- 
room  and  baths,  but  I  believe  without  the  least  advantage 
to  my  lameness.  During  my  residence  at  Bath,  I  acquired 
the  rudiments  of  reading  at  a  day-school,  kept  by  an  old 
dame  near  our  lodgings,  and  I  had  never  a  more  regular 
teacher,  although  I  think  I  did  not  attend  her  a  quarter  of  a 
year.  An  occasional  lesson  from  my  aunt  supplied  the  rest. 
Afterwards,  when  grown  a  big  boy,  I  had  a  few  lessons  from 
Mr.  Stalker  of  Edinburgh,  and  finally  from  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Cleeve.  But  I  never  acquired  a  just  pronunciation,  nor 
could  I  read  with  much  propriety. 

In  other  respects  my  residence  at  Bath  is  marked  by 
very  pleasing  recollections.  The  venerable  John  Home, 
author  of  Douglas,  was  then  at  the  watering-place,  and  paid 
much  attention  to  my  aunt  and  to  me.  His  wife,  who  has 
survived  him,  was  then  an  invalid,  and  used  to  take  the  air 
in  her  carriage  on  the  Downs,  when  I  was  often  invited  to 
accompany  her.  But  the  most  delightful  recollections  of 
Bath  are  dated  after  the  arrival  of  my  uncle,  Captain  Robert 
Scott,  who  introduced  me  to  all  the  little  amusements  which 
suited  my  age,  and  above  all,  to  the  theatre.  The  play  was 
As  You  Like  It;  and  the  witchery  of  the  whole  scene  is 
alive  in  my  mind  at  this  moment  I  made,  I  believe,  noise 
more  than  enough,  and  remember  being  so  much  scandalized 
at  the  quarrel  between  Orlando  and  his  brother  in  the  first 


MY   CHILDHOOD.  313 

scene,  that  I  screamed  out,  "  Ain't  they  brothers  ?  "  A  few 
weeks'  residence  at  home  convinced  me,  who  had  till  then 
been  an  only  child  in  the  house  of  my  grandfather,  that  a 
quarrel  between  brothers  was  a  very  natural  event. 

The  other  circumstances  I  recollect  of  my  residence  in 
Bath  are  but  trifling,  yet  I  never  recall  them  without  a  feel- 
ing of  pleasure.  The  beauties  of  the  parade  (which  of  them 
I  know  not),  with  the  river  Avon  winding  around  it,  and  the 
lowing  of  the  cattle  from  the  opposite  hills,  are  warm  in  my 
recollection,  and  are  only  rivalled  by  the  splendors  of  a  toy- 
shop somewhere  near  the  Orange  Grove.  I  had  acquired,  I 
know  not  by  what  means,  a  kind  of  superstitious  terror  for 
statuary  of  all  kinds.  No  ancient  Iconoclast  or  modern  Cal- 
vinist  could  have  looked  on  the  outside  of  the  Abbey  church 
(if  I  mistake  not,  the  principal  church  at  Bath  is  so  called) 
with  more  horror  than  the  image  of  Jacob's  Ladder,  with  all 
its  angels,  presented  to  my  infant  eye.  My  uncle  effectually 
combated  my  terrors,  and  formally  introduced  me  to  a  statue 
of  Neptune,  which  perhaps  still  keeps  guard  at  the  side  of 
the  Avon,  where  a  pleasure-boat  crosses  to  Spring  Gardens. 

After  being  a  year  at  Bath,  I  returned  first  to  Edinburgh, 
and  afterwards  for  a  season  to  Sandy- Knowe  ;  —  and  thus 
the  time  whiled  away  till  about  my  eighth  year,  when  it  was 
thought  sea-bathing  might  be  of  service  to  my  lameness. 

For  this  purpose,  still  under  my  aunt's  protection,  I  re- 
mained some  weeks  at  Prestonpans,  a  circumstance  not 
worth  mentioning,  excepting  to  record  my  juvenile  intimacy 
with  an  old  military  veteran,  Dalgetty  by  name,  who  had 
pitched  his  tent  in  that  little  village,  after  all  his  campaigns, 
subsisting  upon  an  ensign's  half-pay,  though  called  by  cour- 
tesy a  Captain.  As  this  old  gentleman,  who  had  been  in  all 
the  German  wars,  found  very  few  to  listen  to  his  tales  of 
military  feats,  he  formed  a  sort  of  alliance  with  me,  and  I 
used  invariably  to  attend  him  for  the  pleasure  of  hearing 
those  communications.  Sometimes  our  conversation  turned 
14 


814  SIR   WALTER   SCOTT. 

on  the  American  war,  which  was  then  raging.  It  was  about 
the  time  of  Burgoyne's  unfortunate  expedition,  to  which  my 
Captain  and  I  augured  different  conclusions.  Somebody  had 
showed  me  a  map  of  North  America,  and,  struck  with  the 
rugged  appearance  of  the  country,  and  the  quantity  of  lakes, 
I  expressed  some  doubts  on  the  subject  of  the  General's  ar- 
riving safely  at  the  end  of  his  journey,  which  were  very 
indignantly  refuted  by  the  Captain.  The  news  of  the  Sar- 
atoga disaster,  while  it  gave  me  a  little  triumph,  rather  shook 
my  intimacy  with  the  veteran. 

From  Prestonpans,  I  was  transported  back  to  my  father's 
house  in  George's  Square,  which  continued  to  be  my  most 
established  place  of  residence,  until  my  marriage  in  1797. 
I  felt  the  change  from  being  a  single  indulged  brat,  to  be- 
coming a  member  of  a  large  family,  very  severely  ;  for  under 
the  gentle  government  of  my  kind  grandmother,  who  was 
meekness  itself,  and  of  my  aunt,  who,  though  of  a  higher 
temper,  was  exceedingly  attached  to  me,  I  had  acquired  a 
degree  of  license  which  could  not  be  permitted  in  a  large 
family.  I  had  sense  enough,  however,  to  bend  my  temper 
to  my  new  circumstances ;  but  such  was  the  agony  which  I 
internally  experienced,  that  I  have  guarded  against  nothing 
more  in  the  education  of  my  own  family,  than  against  their 
acquiring  habits  of  self-willed  caprice  and  domination.  I 
found  much  consolation  during  this  period  of  mortification, 
in  the  partiality  of  my  mother.  She  joined  to  a  light  and 
happy  temper  of  mind,  a  strong  turn  to  study  poetry  and 
works  of  imagination.  She  was  sincerely  devout,  but  her 
religion  was,  as  became  her  sex,  of  a  cast  less  austere  than 
my  father's.  Still,  the  discipline  of  the  Presbyterian  Sab- 
bath was  severely  strict,  and  I  think  injudiciously  so.  Al- 
though Bunyan's  Pilgrim,  Gesuer's  Death  of  Abel,  Rowe's 
Letters,  and  one  or  two  other  books,  which,  for  that  reason, 
I  still  have  a  favor  for,  were  admitted  to  relieve  the  gloom 
of  one  dull  sermon  succeeding  to  another,  —  there  was  far 


MY   CHILDHOOD.  315 

too  much  tedium  annexed  to  the  duties  of  the  day ;  and  in 
the  end  it  did  none  of  us  any  good. 

My  week-day  tasks  were  more  agreeable.  My  lameness 
and  my  solitary  habits  had  made  me  a  tolerable  reader,  and 
my  hours  of  leisure  were  usually  spent  in  reading  aloud  to 
my  mother  Pope's  translation  of  Homer,  which,  excepting  a 
few  traditionary  ballads,  and  the  songs  in  Allan  Ramsay's 
Evergreen,  was  the  first  poetry  which  I  perused.  My 
mother  had  good  natural  taste  and  great  feeling ;  she  used 
to  make  me  pause  upon  those  passages  which  expressed  gen- 
erous and  worthy  sentiments,  and  if  she  could  not  divert  me 
from  those  which  were  descriptive  of  battle  and  tumult,  she 
contrived  at  least  to  divide  my  attention  between  them. 
My  own  enthusiasm,  however,  was  chiefly  awakened  by  the 
wonderful  and  the  terrible,  —  the  common  taste  of  children, 
but  in  which  I  have  remained  a  child  even  unto  this  day. 
I  got  by  heart,  not  as  a  task,  but  almost  without  intending 
it,  the  passages  with  which  I  was  most  pleased,  and  used  to 
recite  them  aloud,  both  when  alone  and  to  others,  —  more 
willingly,  however,  in  my  hours  of  solitude,  for  I  had  ob- 
served some  auditors  smile,  and  I  dreaded  ridicule  at  that 
time  of  life  more  than  I  have  ever  done  since. 

In  [1778]  I  was  sent  to  the  second  class  of  the  Grammar 
School,  or  High  School  of  Edinburgh,  then  taught  by  Mr. 
Luke  Fraser,  a  good  Latin  scholar  and  a  very  worthy  man. 
Though  I  had  received,  with  my  brothers,  in  private,  lessons 
of  Latin  from  Mr.  James  French,  now  a  minister  of  the 
Kirk  of  Scotland,  I  was  nevertheless  rather  behind  the  class 
in  which  I  was  placed  both  in  years  and  in  progress.  This 
was  a  real  disadvantage,  and  one  to  which  a  boy  of  lively 
temper  and  talents  ought  to  be  as  little  exposed  as  one  who 
might  be  less  expected  to  make  up  his  lee-way,  as  it  is  called. 
The  situation  has  the  unfortunate  effect  of  reconciling  a  boy 
of  the  former  character  (which  in  a  posthumous  work  I  may 
claim  for  my  own)  to  holding  a  subordinate  station  among 


316  SIR   WALTER   SCOTT. 

his  class-fellows, —  to  which  he  would  otherwise  affix  dis- 
grace. There  is  also,  from  the  constitution  of  the  High 
School,  a  certain  danger  not  sufficiently  attended  to.  The 
boys  take  precedence  in  their  places,  as  they  are  called,  ac- 
cording to  their  merit,  and  it  requires  a  long  while,  in  gen- 
eral, before  even  a  clever  boy,  if  he  falls  behind  the  class,  or 
is  put  into  one  for  which  he  is  not  quite  ready,  can  force  his 
way  to  the  situation  which  his  abilities  really  entitle  him  to 
hold.  But,  in  the  meanwhile,  he  is  necessarily  led  to  be 
the  associate  and  companion  of  those  inferior  spirits  with 
whom  he  is  placed ;  for  the  system  of  precedence,  though  it 
does  not  limit  the  general  intercourse  among  the  boys,  has 
nevertheless  the  effect  of  throwing  them  into  clubs  and 
coteries,  according  to  the  vicinity  of  the  seats  they  hold.  A 
boy  of  good  talents,  therefore,  placed  even  for  a  time  among 
his  inferiors,  especially  if  they  be  also  his  elders,  learns  to 
participate  in  their  pursuits  and  objects  of  ambition,  which 
are  usually  very  distinct  from  the  acquisition  of  learning; 
and  it  will  be  well  if  he  does  not  also  imitate  them  in  that 
indifference  which  is  contented  with  bustling  over  a  lesson 
so  as  to  avoid  punishment,  without  affecting  superiority  or 
aiming  at  reward.  It  was  probably  owing  to  this  circum- 
stance, that,  although  at  a  more  advanced  period  of  life  I 
have  enjoyed  considerable  facility  in  acquiring  languages,  I 
did  not  make  any  great  figure  at  the  High  School,  —  or,  at 
least,  any  exertions  which  I  made  were  desultory  and  little 
to  be  depended  on. 

Our  class  contained  some  very  excellent  scholars.  The 
first  Dux  was  James  Buchan,  who  retained  his  honored 
place,  almost  without  a  day's  interval,  all  the  while  we 
were  at  the  High  School.  He  was  afterwards  at  the  head 
of  the  medical  staff  in  Egypt,  and  in  exposing  himself  to 
the  plague  infection,  by  attending  the  hospitals  there,  dis- 
played the  same  well-regulated  and  gentle,  yet  determined 
perseverance,  which  placed  him  most  worthily  at  the  head 


MY   CHILDHOOD.  317 

of  his  school-fellows,  while  many  lads  of  livelier  parts  and 
dispositions  held  an  inferior  station.  The  next  best  scholars 
(sed  longo  intervcdlo)  were  my  friend  David  Douglas,  the 
heir  and  eleve  of  the  celebrated  Adam  Smith,  and  James 
Hope,  now  a  Writer  to  the  Signet,  both  since  well  known 
and  distinguished  in  their  departments  of  the  law.  As  for 
myself,  I  glanced  like  a  meteor  from  one  end  of  the  class 
to  the  othef,  and  commonly  disgusted  my  kind  master  as 
much  by  negligence  and  frivolity,  as  I  occasionally  pleased 
him  by  flashes  of  intellect  and  talent.  Among  my  com- 
panions, my  good-nature  and  a  flow  of  ready  imagination 
rendered  me  very  popular.  Boys  are  uncommonly  just  in 
their  feelings,  and  at  least  equally  generous.  My  lameness, 
and  the  efforts  which  I  made  to  supply  that  disadvantage, 
by  making  up  in  address  what  I  wanted  in  activity,  engaged 
the  latter  principle  in  my  favor;  and  in  the  winter  play 
hours,  when  hard  exercise  was  impossible,  my  tales  used  to 
assemble  an  admiring  audience  round  Lucky  Brown's  fire- 
side, and  happy  was  he  that  could  sit  next  to  the  inexhaust- 
ible narrator.  I  was  also,  though  often  negligent  of  my 
own  task,  always  ready  to  assist  my  friends,  and  hence  I 
had  a  little  party  of  stanch  partisans  and  adherents,  stout 
of  hand  and  heart,  though  somewhat  dull  of  head,  —  the 
very  tools  for  raising  a  hero  to  eminence.  So,  on  the  whole, 
I  made  a  brighter  figure  in  the  yards  than  in  the  class. 

My  father  did  not  trust  our  education  solely  to  our  High 
School  lessons.  We  had  a  tutor  at  home,  a  young  man  of 
an  excellent  disposition,  and  a  laborious  student.  He  was 
bred  to  the  Kirk,  but  unfortunately  took  such  a  very  strong 
turn  to  fanaticism  that  he  afterwards  resigned  an  excellent 
living  in  a  seaport  town,  merely  because  he  could  not  per- 
suade the  mariners  of  the  guilt  of  setting  sail  of  a  Sabbath, 
—  in  which,  by  the  by,  he  was  less  likely  to  be  successful, 
as,  ceeteris  paribus,  sailors,  from  an  opinion  that  it  is  a  for- 
tunate omen,  always  choose  to  weigh  anchor  on  that  day. 


318  SIR   WALTER   SCOTT. 

The  calibre  of  this  young  man's  understanding  may  be 
judged  of  by  this  anecdote ;  but  in  other  respects,  he  was  a 
faithful  and  active  instructor  ;  and  from  him  chiefly  I  learned 
writing  and  arithmetic.  I  repeated  to  him  my  French  les- 
sons, and  studied  with  him  my  themes  in  the  classics,  but  not 
classically.  I  also  acquired,  by  disputing  with  him,  (for  this 
he  readily  permitted,)  some  knowledge  of  school-divinity 
and  church-history,  and  a  great  acquaintance  in  particular 
with  the  old  books  describing  the  early  history  of  the  Church 
of  Scotland,  the  wars  and  sufferings  of  the  Covenanters, 
and  so  forth.  I,  with  a  head  on  fire  for  chivalry,  was  a  Cav- 
alier ;  my  friend  was  a  Roundhead :  I  was  a  Tory,  and  he 
was  a  Whig.  I  hated  Presbyterians,  and  admired  Montrose 
with  his  victorious  Highlanders ;  he  liked  the  Presbyterian 
Ulysses,  the  dark  and  politic  Argyle :  so  that  we  never 
wanted  subjects  of  dispute ;  but  our  disputes  were  always 
amicable.  In  all  these  tenets  there  was  no  real  conviction 
on  my  part,  arising  out  of  acquaintance  with  the  views  or 
principles  of  either  party ;  nor  had  my  antagonist  address 
enough  to  turn  the  debate  on  such  topics.  I  took  up  my 
politics  at  that  period,  as  King  Charles  II.  did  his  religion, 
from  an  idea  that  the  Cavalier  creed  was  the  more  gentle- 
manlike persuasion  of  the  two. 

After  having  been  three  years  under  Mr.  Fraser,  our 
class  was,  in  the  usual  routine  of  the  school,  turned  over  to 
Dr.  Adam,  the  Rector.  It  was  from  this  respectable  man 
that  I  first  learned  the  value  of  the  knowledge  I  had  hitherto 
considered  only  as  a  burdensome  task.  It  was  the  fashion 
to  remain  two  years  at  his  class,  where  we  read  Caesar,  and 
Livy,  and  Sallust,  in  prose ;  Virgil,  Horace,  and  Terence, 
in  verse.  I  had  by  this  time  mastered,  in  some  degree,  the 
difficulties  of  the  language,  and  began  to  be  sensible  of  its 
beauties.  This  was  really  gathering  grapes 'from  thistles; 
nor  shall  I  soon  forget  the  swelling  of  my  little  pride  when 
the  Rector  pronounced,  that  though  many  of  my  school- 


MY   CHILDHOOD.  319 

fellows  understood  the  Latin  better,  Guallerus  Scott  was 
behind  few  in  following  and  enjoying  the  author's  meaning. 
Thus  encouraged,  I  distinguished  myself  by  some  attempts 
at  poetical  versions  from  Horace  and  Virgil.  Dr.  Adam 
used  to  invite  his  scholars  to  such  essays,  but  never  made 
them  tasks.  I  gained  some  distinction  upon  these  occasions, 
and  the  Rector  in  future  took  much  notice  of  me ;  and  his 
judicious  mixture  of  censure  and  praise  went  far  to  counter- 
balance my  habits  of  indolence  and  inattention.  J  saw  I 
was  expected  to  do  well,  and  I  was  piqued  in  honor  to  vin- 
dicate my  master's  favorable  opinion.  I  climbed,  therefore, 
to  the  first  form;  and,  though  I  never  made  a  first-rate 
Latinist,  my  school-fellows,  and  what  was  of  more  conse- 
quence, I  myself,  considered  that  I  had  a  character  for  learn- 
ing to  maintain.  Dr.  Adam,  to  whom  I  owed  so  much, 
never  failed  to  remind  me  of  my  obligations  when  I  had 
made  some  figure  in  the  literary  world.  He  was,  indeed, 
deeply  imbued  with  that  fortunate  vanity  which  alone  could 
induce  a  man  who  has  arms  to  pare  and  burn  a  muir,  to  sub- 
mit to  the  yet  more  toilsome  task  of  cultivating  youth.  As 
Catholics  confide  in  the  imputed  righteousness  of  their  saints, 
so  did  the  good  old  Doctor  plume  himself  upon  the  success 
of  his  scholars  in  life,  all  of  which  he  never  failed  (and 
often  justly)  to  claim  as  the  creation,  or  at  least  the  fruits, 
of  his  early  instructions.  He  remembered  the  fate  of  every 
boy  at  his  school  during  the  fifty  years  he  had  superintended 
it,  and  always  traced  their  success  or  misfortunes  entirely 
to  their  attention  or  negligence  when  under  his  care.  His 
"  noisy  mansion,"  which  to  others  would  have  been  a  mel- 
ancholy bedlam,  was  the  pride  of  his  heart ;  and  the  only 
fatigues  he  felt,  amidst  din  and  tumult,  and  the  necessity  of 
reading  themes,  hearing  lessons,  and  maintaining  some  de- 
gree of  order  at  the  same  time,  were  relieved  by  compar- 
ing himself  to  Caesar,  who  could  dictate  to  three  secretaries 
at  once  ;  —  so  ready  ia  vanity  to  lighten  the  labors  of  duty. 


320  SIR   WALTER   SCOTT. 

It  is  a  pity  that  a  man  so  learned,  so  admirably  adapted 
for  his  station,  so  useful,  so  simple,  so  easily  contented, 
should  have  had  other  subjects  of  mortification.  But  the 
magistrates  of  Edinburgh,  not  knowing  the  treasure  they 
possessed  in  Dr.  Adam,  encouraged  a  savage  fellow,  called 
Nicol,  one  of  the  undermasters,  in  insulting  his  person  and 
authority.  This  man  was  an  excellent  classical  scholar,  and 
an  admirable  convivial  humorist  (which  latter  quality  rec- 
ommended him  to  the  friendship  of  Burns)  ;  but  worthless, 
drunken,  and  inhumanly  cruel  to  the  boys  under  his  charge, 
lie  carried  his  feud  against  the  Rector  within  an  inch  of 
assassination,  for  he  waylaid  and  knocked  him  down  in  the 
dark.  The  favor  which  this  worthless  rival  obtained  in  the 
town-council  led  to  other  consequences,  which  for  some 
time  clouded  poor  Adam's  happiness  and  fair  fame.  When 
the  French  Revolution  broke  out,  and  parties  ran  high  in 
approving  or  condemning  it,  the  Doctor  incautiously  joined 
the  former.  This  was  very  natural,  for  as  all  his  ideas  of 
existing  governments  were  derived  from  his  experience  of 
the  town-council  of  Edinburgh,  it  must  be  admitted  they 
scarce  brooked  comparison  with  the  free  states  of  Rome 
and  Greece,  from  which  he  borrowed  his  opinions  concern- 
ing republics.  His  want  of  caution  in  speaking  on  the 
political  topics  of  the  day  lost  him  the  respect  of  the  boys, 
most  of  whom  were  accustomed  to  hear  very  different  opin- 
ions on  those  matters  in  the  bosom  of  their  families.  This, 
however  (which  was  long  after  my  time),  passed  away  with 
other  heats  of  the  period,  and  the  Doctor  continued  his 
labors  till  about  a  year  since,  when  he  was  struck  with 
palsy  while  teaching  his  class.  He  survived  a  few  days, 
but  becoming  delirious  before  his  dissolution,  conceived  he 
was  still  in  school,  and  after  some  expressions  of  applause 
or  censure,  he  said,  "  But  it  grows  dark,  —  the  boys  may 
dismiss,"  —  and  instantly  expired. 

From  Dr.  Adam's  class  I  should,  according  to  the  usual 


MY   CHILDHOOD.  321 

routine,  have  proceeded  immediately  to  college.  But,  for- 
tunately, I  was  not  yet  to  lose,  by  a  total  dismission  from 
constraint,  the  acquaintance  with  the  Latin  which  I  had 
acquired.  My  health  had  become  rather  delicate  from  rapid 
growth,  and  my  father  was  easily  persuaded  to  allow  me  to 
spend  half  a  year  at  Kelso  with  my  kind  aunt,  Miss  Janet 
Scott,  whose  inmate  I  again  became.  It  was  hardly  worth 
mentioning  that  I  had  frequently  visited  her  during  our 
short  vacations. 

At  this  time  she  resided  in  a  small  house,  situated  very 
pleasantly  in  a  large  garden,  to  the  eastward  of  the  church- 
yard of  Kelso,  which  extended  down  to  the  Tweed.  It  was 
then  my  father's  property,  from  whom  it  was  afterwards 
purchased  by  my  uncle.  My  grandmother  was  now  dead, 
and  my  aunt's  only  companion,  besides  an  old  maid-servant, 
was  my  cousin,  Miss  Barbara  Scott,  now  Mrs.  Meik.  My 
time  was  here  left  entirely  to  my  own  disposal,  excepting 
for  about  four  hours  in  the  day,  when  I  was  expected  to  at- 
tend the  Grammar  School  of  the  village.  The  teacher,  at 
that  time,  was  Mr.  Lancelot  Whale,  an  excellent  classical 
scholar,  a  humorist,  and  a  worthy  man.  He  had  a  supreme 
antipathy  to  the  puns  which  his  very  uncommon  name  fre- 
quently gave  rise  to ;  insomuch,  that  he  made  his  son  spell 
the  word  Wale,  which  only  occasioned  the  young  man  being 
nicknamed  the  Prince  of  Wales  by  the  military  mess  to  which 
he  belonged.  As  for  Whale,  senior,  the  least  allusion  to 
Jonah,  or  the  terming  him  an  odd  fish,  or  any  similar  quib- 
ble, was  sure  to  put  him  beside  himself.  In  point  of  knowl- 
edge and  taste,  he  was  far  too  good  for  the  situation  he  held, 
which  only  required  that  he  should  give  his  scholars  a  rough 
foundation  in  the  Latin  language.  My  time  with  him, 
though  short,  was  spent  greatly  to  my  advantage  and  his 
gratification.  He  was  glad  to  escape  to  Persius  and  Taci- 
tus from  the  eternal  Rudiments  and  Cornelius  Nepos  ;  and 
as  perusing  these  authors  with  one  who  began  to  understand 
14*  w 


322  SIR  WALTER   SCOTT. 

them  was  to  him  a  labor  of  love,  I  made  considerable  pro- 
gress under  his  instructions.  I  suspect,  indeed,  that  some  of 
the  time  dedicated  to  me  was  withdrawn  from  the  instruc- 
tion of  his  more  regular  scholars  ;  but  I  was  as  grateful  as  I 
could.  I  acted  as  usher,  and  heard  the  inferior  classes,  and 
I  spouted  the  speech  of  Galgacus  at  the  public  examination, 
which  did  not  make  the  less  impression  on  the  audience  that 
few  of  them  probably  understood  one  word  of  it. 

In  the  mean  while  my  acquaintance  with  English  litera- 
ture was  gradually  extending  itself.  In  the  intervals  of  my 
school  hours  I  had  always  perused  with  avidity  such  books 
of  history  or  poetry  or  voyages  and  travels  as  chance  pre- 
sented to  me  —  not  forgetting  the  usual,  or  rather  ten  times 
the  usual,  quantity  of  fairy  tales,  eastern  stories,  roman- 
ces, &c.  These  studies  were  totally  unregulated  and  undi- 
rected. My  tutor  thought  it  almost  a  sin  to  open  a  profane 
play  or  poem ;  and  my  mother,  besides  that  she  might  be  in 
some  degree  trammelled  by  the  religious  scruples  which  he 
suggested,  had  no  longer  the  opportunity  to  hear  me  read 
poetry  as  formerly.  I  found,  however,  in  her  dressing-room 
(where  I  slept  at  one  time)  some  odd  volumes  of  Shake- 
speare, nor  can  I  easily  forget  the  rapture  with  which  I  sat 
up  in  my  shirt  reading  them  by  the  light  of  a  fire  in  her 
apartment,  until  the  bustle  of  the  family  rising  from  supper 
warned  me  it  was  time  to  creep  back  to  my  bed,  where  I 
was  supposed  to  have  been  safely  deposited  since  nine 
o'clock.  Chance,  however,  threw  in  my  way  a  poetical  pre- 
ceptor. This  was  no  other  than  the  excellent  and  benevo- 
lent Dr.  Blacklock,  well  known  at  that  time  as  a  literary 
character.  I  know  not  how  I  attracted  his  attention,  and 
that  of  some  of  the  young  men  who  boarded  in  his  family  ; 
but  so  it  was  that  I  became  a  frequent  and  favored  guest. 
The  kind  old  man  opened  to  me  the  stores  of  his  library, 
and  through  his  recommendation  I  became  intimate  with 
Ossian  and  Spenser.  I  was  delighted  with  both,  yet  I  think 


MY   CHILDHOOD.  323 

chiefly  with  the  latter  poet.  The  tawdry  repetitions  of  the 
Ossianic  phraseology  disgusted  me  rather  sooner  than  might 
have  been  expected  from  my  age.  But  Spenser  I  could 
have  read  forever.  Too  young  to  trouble  myself  about  the 
allegory,  I  considered  all  the  knights  and  ladies  and  dragons 
and  giants  in  their  outward  and  exoteric  sense,  and  God 
only  knows  how  delighted  I  was  to  find  myself  in  such  soci- 
ety. As  I  had  always  a  wonderful  facility  in  retaining  in 
my  memory  whatever  verses  pleased  me,  the  quantity  of 
Spenser's  stanzas  which  I  could  repeat  was  really  marvel- 
lous. But  this  memory  of  mine  was  a  very  fickle  ally,  and 
has  through  my  whole  life  acted  merely  upon  its  own  capri- 
cious motion,  and  might  have  enabled  me  to  adopt  old  Beat- 
tie  of  Meikledale's  answer,  when  complimented  by  a  certain 
reverend  divine  on  the  strength  of  the  same  faculty :  — 
"  No,  sir,"  answered  the  old  Borderer,  "  I  have  no  command 
of  my  memory.  It  only  retains  what  hits  my  fancy  ;  and 
probably,  sir,  if  you  were  to  preach  to  me  for  two  hours,  I 
would  not  be  able  when  you  finished  to  remember  a  word 
you  had  been  saying."  My  memory  was  precisely  of  the 
same  kind :  it  seldom  failed  to  preserve  most  tenaciously  a 
favorite  passage  of  poetry,  a  play-house  ditty,  or,  above  all, 
a  Border-raid  ballad ;  but  names,  dates,  and  the  other  tech- 
nicalities of  history,  escaped  me  hi  a  most  melancholy  degree. 
The  philosophy  of  history,  a  much  more  important  subject, 
was  also  a  sealed  book  at  this  period  of  my  life ;  but  I  grad- 
ually assembled  much  of  what  was  striking  and  picturesque 
in  historical  narrative  ;  and  when,  in  riper  years,  I  attended 
more  to  the  deduction  of  general  principles,  I  was  furnished 
with  a  powerful  host  of  examples  in  illustration  of  them.  I 
was,  in  short,  like  an  ignorant  gamester,  who  kept  up  a  good 
hand  until  he  knew  how  to  play  it. 

1  left  the  High  School,  therefore,  with  a  great  quantity 
of  general  information,  ill  arranged,  indeed,  and  collected 
without  system,  yet  deeply  impressed  upon  my  mind ;  read- 


324  SIR   WALTER    SCOTT. 

ily  assorted  by  my  power  of  connection  and  memory,  and 
gilded,  if  I  may  be  permitted  to  say  so,  by  a  vivid  and 
active  imagination.  If  my  studies  were  not  under  any  direc- 
tion at  Edinburgh,  in  the  country,  it  may  be  well  imagined, 
they  were  less  so.  A  respectable  subscription  library,  a  cir- 
culating library  of  ancient  standing,  and  some  private  book- 
shelves, were  open  to  my  random  perusal,  and  I  waded  into 
the  stream  like  a  blind  man  into  a  ford,  without  the  power 
of  searching  my  way,  unless  by  groping  for  it.  My  appe- 
tite for  books  was  as  ample  and  indiscriminating  as  it  was 
indefatigable,  and  I  since  have  had  too  frequently  reason  to 
repent  that  few  ever  read  so  much,  and  to  so  little  purpose. 

Among  the  valuable  acquisitions  I  made  about  this  time, 
was  an  acquaintance  with  Tasso's  Jerusalem  Delivered, 
through  the  flat  medium  of  Mr.  Hoole's  translation.  But 
above  all,  I  then  first  became  acquainted  with  Bishop 
Percy's  Reliques  of  Ancient  Poetry.  As  I  had  been 
from  infancy  devoted  to  legendary  lore  of  this  nature,  and 
only  reluctantly  withdrew  my  attention,  from  the  scarcity 
of  materials  and  the  rudeness  of  those  which  I  possessed, 
it  may  be  imagined,  but  cannot  be  described,  with  what 
delight  I  saw  pieces  of  the  same  kind  which  had  amused  my 
childhood,  and  still  continued  in  secret  the  Delilahs  of  my 
imagination,  considered  as  the  subject  of  sober  research, 
grave  commentary,  and  apt  illustration,  by  an  editor  who 
showed  his  poetical  genius  was  capable  of  emulating  the  best 
qualities  of  what  his  pious  labor  preserved.  I  remember 
well  the  spot  where  I  read  these  volumes  for  the  first  time. 
It  was  beneath  a  huge  platanus-tree,  in  the  ruins  of  what 
had  been  intended  for  an  old-fashioned  arbor  in  the  garden 
I  have  mentioned.  The  summer-day  sped  onward  so  fast, 
that  notwithstanding  the  sharp  appetite  of  thirteen,  I  forgot 
the  hour  of  dinner,  was  sought  for  with  anxiety,  and  was 
still  found  entranced  in  my  intellectual  banquet.  To  read 
and  to  remember  was  in  this  instance  the  same  thing,  and 


MY  CHILDHOOD.  325 

henceforth  I  overwhelmed  ray  school-fellows,  and  all  who 
would  hearken  to  me,  with  tragical  recitations  from  the  bal- 
lads of  Bishop  Percy.  The  first  time,  too,  I  could  scrape  a 
few  shillings  together,  which  were  not  common  occurrences 
with  me,  I  bought  unto  myself  a  copy  of  these  beloved  vol- 
umes ;  nor  do  I  believe  I  ever  read  a  book  half  so  fre- 
quently, or  with  half  the  enthusiasm.  About  this  period 
also  I  became  acquainted  with  the  works  of  Richardson,  and 
those  of  Mackenzie  (whom  in  later  years  I  became  enti- 
tled to  call  my  friend),  —  with  Fielding,  Smollett,  and  some 
others  of  our  best  novelists. 

To  this  period  also  I  can  trace  distinctly  the  awaking 
of  that  delightful  feeling  for  the  beauties  of  natural  objects 
which  has  never  since  deserted  me.  The  neighborhood  of 
Kelso,  the  most  beautiful,  if  not  the  most  romantic  village 
in  Scotland,  is  eminently  calculated  to  awaken  these  ideas. 
It  presents  objects,  not  only  grand  in  themselves,  but  vener- 
able from  their  association.  The  meeting  of  two  superb 
rivers,  the  Tweed  and  the  Teviot,  both  renowned  in  song,  — 
the  ruins  of  an  ancient  Abbey,  —  the  more  distant  vestiges 
of  Roxburgh  Castle,  —  the  modern  mansion  of  Fleurs,  which 
is  so  situated  as  to  combine  the  ideas  of  ancient  baronial 
grandeur  with  those  of  modern  taste,  —  are  in  themselves 
objects  of  the  first  class  ;  yet  are  so  mixed,  united,  and 
melted  among  a  thousand  other  beauties  of  a  less  prominent 
description,  that  they  harmonize  into  one  general  picture, 
and  please  rather  by  unison  than  by  concord.  I  believe  I 
have  written  unintelligibly  upon  this  subject,  but  it  is  fitter 
for  the  pencil  than  the  pen.  The  romantic  feelings  which 
I  have  described  as  predominating  in  my  mind  naturally 
rested  upon  and  associated  themselves  with  these  grand  fea- 
tures of  the  landscape  around  me ;  and  the  historical  inci- 
dents, or  traditional  legends  connected  with  many  of  them, 
gave  to  my  admiration  a  sort  of  intense  impression  of 
reverence,  which  at  times  made  my  heart  feel  too  big  for  its 


326  SIR    WALTER   SCOTT. 

bosom.  From  this  time  the  love  of  natural  beauty,  more 
especially  when  combined  with  ancient  ruins  or  remains  of 
our  fathers'  piety  or  splendor,  became  with  me  an  insatiable 
passion,  which,  if  circumstances  had  permitted,  I  would  will- 
ingly have  gratified  by  travelling  over  half  the  globe. 


THE   END. 


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